Asher
The tires crunched over gravel as I pulled up to the remote gas station on the edge of Ashridge County—the kind of place no one ever questioned or remembered. One flick of my wrist and the fuel pump shifted aside, revealing the old maintenance tunnel beneath it. I checked for watchers—none. I slipped inside.
Twenty minutes through the damp underground corridor, past biometric scans and steel-reinforced doors, and I was finally inside the inner sanctum of the WHO.
The air here was sterile, laced with chemicals and secrets.
I found Elias waiting in the glass-walled control room, leaning against the desk like he owned the world. His black hair was slicked back today, the faint scar on his jaw more noticeable under the surgical light above him.
“You’re late,” he said, not looking up
