Liam's Voice

The silence after Liam hung up was deafening, amplified by the hiss of the shower. Elena stared at the phone, her hands slick with steam and sweat. *Don't die before I get there.* It wasn't a promise. It was a condition.

She powered down the phone and shoved it back into the waterproof bag, tucking it inside her bra. She had an hour. Maybe less.

She turned off the water. The sudden quiet was terrifying. She listened at the door. No footsteps. No voices. The house was holding its breath.

She unlocked the door and stepped out. The hallway was empty. The camera in the smoke detector blinked its steady green rhythm, but she knew better now. It was recording. Every frame was being fed to the Annex.

She walked to the stairs, moving slowly, trying to look defeated. If Constance was watching, she needed to see a woman who had given up. A woman who was just going to her room to wait for the inevitable.

But she didn't go to the master suite. She turned left, toward the kitchen.

She needed to get back into the Annex.

The kitchen was empty, the staff dismissed or hiding. Elena moved to the pantry. She pushed aside the flour jars, retrieving her "lucky pen"—the heavy metal one she had taken from the car. It wasn't much of a weapon, but it was better than nothing.

She slipped out the side door. The sun was setting, casting long, bruised shadows across the lawn. The security team was gone, likely patrolling the perimeter or guarding the front gate.

She walked to the wine cellar entrance. The door was still unlocked.

She slipped inside. The air was frigid, the hum of the servers vibrating through the soles of her shoes. She squeezed through the gap in the wine rack, back into the plenum.

The space was darker now, the only light coming from the LEDs on the server racks through the grate.

She crawled to the filing cabinet. The one with the dead donor files.

She pulled the bottom drawer. It was locked.

Of course.

She looked around for a tool. A loose brick. A piece of pipe.

Her eyes landed on the fire extinguisher mounted to the wall near the grate.

She grabbed it. It was heavy, solid.

She jammed the nozzle into the gap between the drawer and the frame. She leaned back, putting her weight into it.

Metal screeched. The lock held.

She gritted her teeth and pulled again. *Come on.*

*Snap.*

The lock gave way. The drawer slid open.

Inside, nestled in a foam cutout, was a gun. An old service revolver, heavy and black. Beside it was a box of ammunition.

Elena picked it up. She had never held a gun before. It felt cold, alien.

She checked the cylinder. It was loaded.

"I didn't think you'd find it."

Elena spun around, raising the gun.

It wasn't Constance. It wasn't Julian.

It was Dr. Thorne.

He was standing in the wine cellar, peering through the gap in the rack. He held a syringe in his hand.

"Put it down, Elena," he said, his voice calm, professional. "You're not a killer. You're a patient."

"I'm not a patient," Elena said, her hands shaking. "And you're not a doctor. You're a fixer."

"I'm both," Thorne said. He squeezed through the gap, stepping into the plenum. He wasn't afraid of the gun. He looked bored. "Constance pays me to fix problems. And right now, you are a very expensive problem."

He took a step toward her.

"Stay back," Elena warned.

"Or what? You'll shoot me? With Robert Hawthorne’s gun?" Thorne laughed. "That gun hasn't been fired in thirty years. It probably won't even cycle."

He took another step.

Elena pulled the trigger.

*Click.*

Thorne smiled. "See? Misfire."

He lunged.

Elena didn't try to fire again. she didn't freeze. She swung the heavy steel barrel of the revolver, putting all her fear and rage into the motion.

It connected with Thorne’s temple with a sickening crunch.

He dropped like a stone. The syringe skittered across the concrete floor.

Elena stood over him, breathing hard. He wasn't moving.

She looked at the gun. It was useless as a firearm, but effective as a club.

She checked his pockets. She found a key card. And a phone.

She took both.

She looked at the screen of his phone. A text message from Constance.

*Is it done?*

Elena typed a reply.

*She's sedated. Bringing her to the car.*

She hit send.

Then she looked at the dead donors list in the open drawer.

If she knew about the dead donors, she was already in too deep.

She grabbed the file. She grabbed the gun.

She wasn't getting out of the house. Liam was right.

She needed to fortify.

She climbed back through the wine rack, leaving the unconscious doctor in the dust. She ran up the stairs, two at a time, toward the master suite.

She needed to barricade the doors. She needed to wait for the cavalry.

But as she reached the landing, she saw it.

The door to Maya’s room was open.

And Maya was gone.