The interior of the black SUV smelled of metallic blood, ozone from the explosion, and the rain-soaked wool of the blanket that still partially draped our shoulders. Rosw leaned back against the leather seat, his face ashen, his breath coming in shallow, ragged hitches. His hand was still locked around mine, his knuckles white, as if letting go would mean sliding back into the black water of the quarry.
"Status, Arthur," Rosw rasped, his voice barely audible over the hum of the tires.
"We’ve neutralized the immediate pursuit, sir," Arthur replied from the front, his eyes fixed on the road but his voice tight with uncharacteristic concern. "The 'Glass House' is a total loss. The local authorities will write it off as a gas leak—I’ve already initiated the protocol. But Julian... we haven't
