The sharp click of the lock engaging behind Vivian echoed like a tomb sealing. Before the sound fully faded, Cruz was a blur of controlled motion. He pivoted, back pressed against the door, eyes scanning the ceiling corners.
From a concealed compartment in his ill-fitting orderly's belt, he produced a sleek, matte-black device slightly larger than a deck of cards. A single red LED glowed as he thumbed a switch. A low, resonant hum vibrated the air, settling into the bones.
"Audio bugs dead," he confirmed, his voice barely above a whisper yet cutting through the residual tension like a scalpel. He tossed the bundle of stolen scrubs towards me. They landed with a soft thud on the Frette linens. "Cameras looped for six minutes. Muévete, Doc. Now."
The coarse fabric felt alien against my skin as I yanked it over the thin paper gown. My fingers, still trembling slightly from the adrenaline crash and lingering sedative haze, fumbled with the ties.
The overpowering scent of industrial bleach and cheap lemon disinfectant clung to the material, a flimsy mask trying to smother the deeper, more primal odor lurking beneath – the unmistakable, coppery tang of dried blood, old but potent. It was the smell of Aster's hidden operations, seeping into the very fabric they provided.
Cruz was already across the room, his switchblade – my switchblade, I noted grimly, recognizing the worn ivory handle – probing the seal around the wire-reinforced window. He pressed the tip against the tempered glass near the frame, testing its give.
Nothing.
He slid the blade upwards, tracing the weld line securing the fire escape ladder outside. "Welded shut," he grunted, the sound tight with frustration. "Standard prison protocol for 'high-risk' delusionals." His dark eyes flicked towards the nightstand, where Vivian's abandoned syringe lay. "You know what that poison is? Really know?"
I picked it up, the cool glass a counterpoint to the heat of my palm. Holding it to the weak light filtering through the storm clouds outside, the pale blue liquid swirled with an almost deceptive beauty, catching the light like poisoned champagne.
"Prometheus," I stated, the name tasting like ash. "Nephilim's golden goose. Prion-based. It doesn't kill cells; it warps them. Turns neural tissue into spongiform swiss cheese. Eats the brain from the inside out, slow and irreversible. Like termites in ancient timber." I tapped the label. "Lot 114-P. Same batch they're pumping into the Russian woman next door. Anya Petrova."
A muscle in Cruz's jaw bunched violently, a tic jumping beneath the skin. "Anna." The name wasn't just spoken; it was wrenched from him, raw and heavy, landing in the space between us with the devastating finality of a dropped grenade pin. His knuckles whitened around the switchblade handle.
Before I could form the question burning on my tongue – Who is Anna? Your sister? – a new sound invaded the relative quiet. Not the fading sirens or distant shouts, but something closer, more visceral. A wet, rhythmic thump-thump-thump emanating from the ventilation shaft high on the wall.
It sounded horribly organic, like something heavy, broken, and leaking was dragging itself laboriously through the metal ductwork. The sound echoed down the shaft, growing slightly louder, then fading, a grotesque morse code of suffering.
Cruz's hand instinctively flew to his hip, reaching for a weapon that wasn't there – the service pistol his Marine training demanded. His eyes, hard and flinty, met mine. "We need to move. Now. Six minutes started sixty seconds ago." He moved to the door, pressing his ear against the cold metal for a heartbeat, then cracked it open a sliver.
The hallway was a strobe-lit nightmare. Red emergency lights pulsed erratically, casting elongated, dancing shadows that made the running orderlies look like monstrous puppets. The air vibrated with shouted orders, the crackle of radios, and the piercing, ragged screams of a woman nearby: "¡No otra vez! ¡Por favor, Dios, no otra vez!" The raw terror in her Spanish plea needed no translation. Not again! Please, God, not again!
Cruz glanced back, a silent command in his eyes. Stay close. Stay low. We slipped into the maelstrom, two ghosts against the institutional chaos.
Navigating Aster's labyrinthine corridors was like running through a fever dream. The pulsing red light distorted perspectives, turning familiar doorways into menacing maws. Cruz moved with predatory grace, hugging the walls, using the shadows thrown by medical carts and fire extinguisher cabinets as cover.
He seemed to possess an innate map of the staff's panic-induced blind spots. We passed open doorways revealing scenes of chilling neglect: patients cowering in corners, others catatonic, one man methodically bashing his head against a padded wall. The smell – bleach, fear, urine, and underlying decay – grew thicker the deeper we went.
Down two flights of service stairs, the air grew perceptibly colder. The chaotic noise from above dampened, replaced by the low thrum of refrigeration units and a new, cloying scent that cut through the rest: formaldehyde, sharp and acrid. We stood before a heavy stainless-steel door marked simply:
MORGUE - AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY
Cruz didn't hesitate. He dropped to one knee, pulling a set of lock picks from a pouch inside his scrubs – not the elegant tools of a cat burglar, but sturdy, functional implements. His fingers worked with practiced speed, his ear pressed close to the lock mechanism, listening for the tumblers. "Keep the watch," he murmured, his focus absolute.
My back pressed against the cold steel door, I scanned the dimly lit corridor. The distant chaos felt muffled down here, replaced by a silence that pressed in, heavy and suffocating.
The stench of formaldehyde was overwhelming, but beneath its chemical bite lurked something worse – a sweet, putrid undertone of decay, the unmistakable scent of improperly stored neural tissue beginning to break down. It was the smell of Aster's hidden rot.
Click. The lock surrendered. Cruz eased the heavy door open just enough for us to slip through, then closed it silently behind us.
The cold hit like a physical blow, deeper and more penetrating than the Hudson in mid-January. It was a sterile, lifeless cold that seeped into the marrow. Rows of stainless-steel drawers lined the walls, humming with quiet menace under the harsh fluorescent lights.
The center of the room held autopsy stations – drains in the floor, scales hanging ominously, trays of gleaming, cruel instruments.
"Bay 7," Cruz muttered, consulting a digital logbook he'd swiftly hacked on a wall terminal. His movements were economical, devoid of hesitation. He located the drawer and yanked the heavy handle. The mechanism groaned as the tray slid out.
Anya Petrova lay exposed under the clinical light. Her face, once likely vibrant, was frozen in a rictus of pure, unadulterated terror, mouth slightly agape, eyes wide and clouded.
Death hadn't softened the horror she'd experienced. But the true atrocity was the crude Y-incision that started at her collarbones, met at her sternum, and plunged down past her navel. It had been sutured with thick, uneven stitches, the work hurried and uncaring. More horrifying was the evidence above – her skull showed clear signs of having been opened and crudely stapled shut. The autopsy hadn't just examined; it had plundered.
"Jesus Christ," I breathed, the frigid air burning my lungs. I reached for the clipboard clipped to the end of the tray, my fingers numb. The autopsy report was chillingly concise:
» DECEDENT: Petrova, Anya (ID: Undocumented)
» CAUSE OF DEATH: Spontaneous Cerebral Liquefaction
*» NOTES: Significant prion seeding confirmed in extracted hippocampal tissue. Reference: Prometheus-114-P experimental cohort. Full neuropathological analysis pending.*
"Spontaneous," Cruz echoed, the word dripping with venom. He pulled out a burner phone, its camera clicking rapidly as he documented the grisly scene – the crude cranial sutures, the frothy, grayish brain matter visible through a gap where the staples had pulled loose. It resembled rotten sponge more than human tissue.
"Same fucking notes they wrote for my sister. Same cause of death listed for seventeen others at Cook County Free Hospital last month. All 'undocumented'. All conveniently vanished into the system after." His voice was flat, but the rage simmered just beneath the surface, a volcano held in check.