Ch.51: The Countdown
Chapter 51 · ~2.2k words
Leo leaned over the cracked screen of his laptop, his knuckles white against the keys. We were huddled in the motel shadows, the only light coming from the blue flicker of the stolen network interface. Using Aris's credentials, he bypassed the secondary firewall of the Thorne Estate.
"I'm in," Leo whispered, his voice jagged with exhaustion. "The internal feeds are live."
The screen split into a dozen grainy windows. I leaned forward, my breath hitching as I searched for the nursery. We found it—but it wasn't a nursery anymore.
The soft lighting and crib had been replaced by heavy medical gantry. Two technicians in biohazard suits were calibrating a centrifugal separator—the kind used for high-volume blood harvesting.
"What are they doing?" Leo rasped, his grip tightening on my arm.
"They're prepping for a total volume extraction," I breathed, my nursing background screaming at the sight of the heavy-gauge catheters.
I watched the next feed—Thorne’s private lab. Julian was strapped into a high-backed chair, his synthetic mask partially melted, revealing a horror of black, weeping tissue that had consumed half his neck. He was convulsing, his body rejecting the diluted saline 'fix' I’d given him earlier. He wasn't just sick; he was liquefying.
Isabella stood over him, her face a mask of cold fury. She pointed to a digital countdown clock on the wall.
*23:59:58.*
"He’s in full systemic collapse," I whispered, the acid rising in my throat. "The necrosis is hitting his major organs. The small doses won't stop it anymore. They’re going to do a complete marrow exchange."
I watched as the technicians in the nursery began to prep Daisy’s tiny, pale arm. They weren't looking for a single vial this time. They were setting up a continuous loop.
To save the rotting monster in the chair, they were going to drain my daughter until there was nothing left but an empty shell. Julian’s hunger had finally outpaced his patience. Isabella was done with the rationing; she was going to burn the source to save the proof of concept.
I stared at the flickering timer, the red numbers bleeding into my vision like a death sentence.
We have 24 hours before my daughter is a dry husk.