The sound of twelve men drowning on dry land sounded exactly like tearing wet paper.
Jane didn’t care. The marrow in her femurs felt like it was turning to boiling lead.
Silver aerosol hissed from the ceiling grates, thick and sweet like burnt sugar and old pennies. It blanketed the concrete floor in a heavy, creeping fog. Around her, the most powerful men in the Thorne Pack were dying. They clawed at their own throats. They tore at their expensive collars, spitting up black, tar-like blood as the silver shredded their respiratory tracts.
Jane knelt in the center of the c*****e, her spine arched so hard it felt ready to snap. She was trying to compartmentalize the pain. She was trying to build a box in her mind and lock the agony inside it.
Three exits, her brain catalogued frantically
