The vibration was a dull, rhythmic ache that started in the soles of their feet and crawled up their spines. As the massive stone ledge continued its descent into the bowels of the island, the salt-crusted air of the surface was replaced by a sterile, ozone-heavy chill. It was the scent of dead skin and recycled air, a scent that Riley knew far too well.
Arkan’s head rolled against Maya’s shoulder. His skin was pale, nearly translucent, with the faint blue glow of the tattoo under his skin flickering like a dying fluorescent bulb. Maya held his hand—or what used to be a hand. The skin on his left palm was charred, cracked open to reveal a web of glowing, fiber-optic-like threads that seemed to pulsate in sync with the bunker's machinery.
"He’s getting colder," Maya whispered, her breath
