The silence in the Zhao Tower was heavier than the explosion had been. It was a thick, ringing quiet, broken only by the hiss of escaping liquid nitrogen and the distant, muffled sirens of a city in shock.
Lucian stood over the cooling vats, his chest heaving. He didn't look at the shattered monitors or the weeping woman on the floor. He looked at the elevator.
The doors groaned open. Elara was there, her lab coat stained with chemical soot, her hair a wild halo. She wasn't running toward him; she was pushing a mobile medical gurney. On it lay Leo, his skin pale but his eyes open—truly open—for the first time in hours.
"Lucian," she choked out.
He met her halfway, his scorched tactical armor clashing against her frame as he pulled her and the gurney into a singular, desperate embrace.
