George knelt in the broken sanctuary, eyes closed, blood dripping from his lip. The shattered vial at his feet gleamed faintly under the dim lights. Jack stood over him, Vincent by his side, both breathing hard, wounds fresh. Joe leaned against the doorway, his frame trembling, supported by Sarah.
“I said live,” Joe growled. “Not rot.”
But then George’s lips curled.
He looked up—and smiled.
“You never understood,” he whispered. “I always planned to.”
Joe’s eyes narrowed. “What?”
George raised his sleeve. Beneath the torn fabric of his suit, his veins pulsed—black, glowing faintly.
“I injected it all,” George said. “Every drop. While you fought your little war up top.”
Sarah’s face paled. “All of it?”
“You mad bastard…” Jack stepped back.
“Thirty-two years of research,” George con
