We sprinted into the kitchens, my heart pounding louder than the clamor behind us. The catering staff froze, their faces a mix of surprise and bewilderment. I could barely process what had just happened, let alone comprehend Sarah’s warning. The urgency in her voice, however, was undeniable. My feet moved on their own, guided by a primal instinct to escape.
The door slammed behind us, and the noise of the reception became a distant hum. The narrow corridor was dimly lit, the air thick with the scent of spices and baking bread. I stumbled, but Sarah’s grip on my hand was ironclad. Her breaths came in sharp, ragged gasps.
“Sarah, what is going on?” I demanded, struggling to keep pace with her. My voice echoed off the tiled walls, but she didn’t slow down, navigating the back corridors with surprising familiarity.
