Michael's POV
The van bounced over potholes, each jolt sending pain through my skull. Tiara lay across my lap, her breathing shallow, skin burning with fever. Outside, streetlights blurred as we sped through the night.
"She's getting worse," I said, brushing damp hair from her forehead.
Victor glanced back from the passenger seat, his face half-hidden in shadow. My right hand man, my brother. My f*****g dead brother who wasn't dead.
"The counter-sequence is fighting her conditioning," he explained. "Her mind's a battlefield right now."
I stared at him, still unable to process his existence. Five weeks of mourning. Five weeks of nightmares. All bullshit.
"How much farther?" Costa demanded from behind the wheel, blood soaking his shirt.
"Two miles," Marcus answered, checking something
