The silver barrel of the submachine gun didn't tremble in the Curator’s hand; it caught the cold, grey reflection of the sea fog rolling through the shattered balcony doors. Standing in the entrance of Room 402, his white suit smeared with the black grease of the generator and the red mud of the courtyard, he looked like a demon pulled straight from the dark waters of the Masasani bay. His eyes were wide, bloodshot, and burning with the manic frenzy of a man who had lost his empire in a single night and had nothing left to lose but his last magazine of bullets.
"Step away from the bed, Doctor," the Curator hissed, his voice a dry, rattling whisper that cut through the agonizing, suffocating silence of the room. "I built this house. I paid for the concrete in those white pillars. I am not
