*Chapter 11:
ALESSIA
Liam’s laugh was still in the stairwell when the first suppressant canister hit the floor.
The metal clanged against stone, once, twice, before Axel’s boot caught it mid-bounce and sent it flying back down the steps. It cracked against the wall below and hissed. The sound was wrong. Not the low roll of Nightshade smoke. This was sharper, pressurized, like a vent line popping in the ER.
The smell hit me a second later. Antiseptic and acetone, sweet enough to turn my stomach. Pale blue gas bled from the valve in thin, curling ribbons. My eyes watered instantly.
Suppressant, I knew that chemical profile from three years of late-night toxicology reports. The same pale blue liquid from the syringe I shattered against Blackwell’s wall last night. Standard Council-issue
