The world didn't return in colors; it returned in a deafening, high-pitched screech that felt like a rusty needle driving straight through my eardrums.
I was flat on my back in the outer corridor, the back of my skull throbbing violently where it had collided with the concrete wall. Thick, toxic gray smoke rolled over me in heavy waves, carrying the acrid stench of melted plastic, scorched copper, and vaporized blood. The heat from the blast still hung suspended in the confined space, singeing the hair on the back of my hands. My lungs revolted, forcing a harsh, hacking cough from my chest that sent a jagged line of agony through my bruised ribs. Every breath felt like inhaling ground glass.
I forced my eyes open, blinking rapidly against the sting of the heat and the gray soot settling through the air. The world was a blurred, spinning mess of shifting shadows, dancing orange embers, and falling plaster.
