The red emergency lights of the bunker bled into the sapphire glow emanating from my skin, creating a violet twilight that felt like the end of the world. Outside, the wind howled through the pines, carrying the scent of ozone and the rhythmic, terrifying thwack-thwack of the cooling helicopter blades.
Adrian stood like a statue of salt. The syringe in his hand—the supposed cure—was trembling. He looked at the screen, at the woman in the white dress standing on the helipad, and I saw a decade of grief, obsession, and guilt collapse in his eyes.
"Maya," he breathed, the name escaping him like a dying prayer.
"Don't say her name," I hissed, my voice gaining a jagged, desperate strength. I grabbed his arm, pulling his gaze back to me. "Look at me, Adrian! I’m the one who bled for you. I’m
