Vaporized silver doesn’t burn like fire. It coats the inside of the lungs like crushed glass and battery acid.
Jane didn’t scream. Screaming required oxygen she couldn’t afford to waste. She dropped instantly, hitting the freezing concrete floor where the heavy, toxic fog hadn’t yet settled. Her knees bruised violently against the stone. She didn’t feel it. Her mind had already detached, floating somewhere near the ceiling, observing the chaos with the cold, clinical precision of a coroner.
Above her, the world ended.
The sound of Michael’s bones restructuring wasn’t a crackle. It was the sickening, wet thud of a high-speed car crash happening inside a human body. The bespoke Tom Ford suit didn’t just tear; it exploded off his expanding frame in shreds of expensive wool and silk.
The L
