White light. White walls. White noise.
Sienna floated between moments, each breath a fevered hallucination. The Veritas compound roared through her bloodstream—too cold, then too hot, then nothing at all.
She blinked up at the ceiling. Sterile panels buzzed overhead. Somewhere, a heart monitor beeped like a countdown.
Where was she?
No windows.No clocks.Just the sense of being watched.
She tried to lift her hand.
Straps.
They'd tied her down.
Her fingers twitched. Her pulse raced. A scream clawed at her throat but wouldn't rise.
Then—
Glass exploded.
Shards rained across the room like lethal snowflakes. The air shifted, heavy with copper and smoke.
And then—
Silas.
He crashed through the observation window in a storm of blood and rage, his usual calm shattered. His shirt was torn, soaked through with red. A blade gleamed in his hand—not elegant, not ceremonial—brutal. Efficient. Deadly.
He moved like a man with nothing left to lose.
Two guards rushed him.
He dropped them without hesitation.
One neck snapped. One throat slit.
The room fell silent again—except for the gurgle of dying men and the ragged wheeze of his breath.
Sienna blinked, trying to focus.
"Idiot," she slurred, her voice rough and low. "You'll... die."
Silas stumbled to her side, knees buckling. Blood smeared across her restraints as he worked the buckles loose.
"Not today, wife." His laugh was jagged and wild, but alive.
Her wrists came free, trembling.
She reached for him—he caught her halfway.
Their foreheads met, skin to skin, heat to heat. She could feel his pulse against hers, thready but real.
Their lips brushed.Not quite a kiss.Just shared breath.Shared poison.Shared defiance.
"We're getting out," he whispered, voice hoarse but certain."Together."
Outside, alarms began to scream.
Inside, her heartbeat steadied.