Dax swears under his breath before gripping my hand and striding off. I have to jog to keep up with him. My feet ache with every step. The second we step out into the darkened car park, Dax drops my hand as though burnt, rips off his mask and gloves and casts them aside. The cut above his brow weeps a little, blood trickling from the wound. His cheek is bruised and swollen, but he doesn’t seem to notice. “Fucking joke these masks. You can all go and fuck yourselves if you think I’m wearing this bastard thing again,” Dax adds darkly. “Keep your fucking voice down and get Pen in the damn car
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