The smell of aerosolized wolfsbane was sickeningly sweet, like burnt sugar and rotting lilies, but Jane’s first coherent thought was how deeply it was going to ruin the bergamot soaked into his collar.
The white vapor poured from the ceiling vents in thick, heavy sheets, cascading toward the floor like a reverse waterfall. The blast shutters had sealed with the finality of a tomb. Total darkness, save for the faint, unnatural amber glow bleeding into the space.
It was Michael’s eyes.
Jane did not scream. Her knees did not buckle. While the remaining oxygen in the room began to curdle into poison, her mind snapped into a terrifyingly cold, clinical geometry. She calculated the square footage of the penthouse. The ceiling height. The velocity of the gas pouring from the four primary HVAC
