Pressed against the icy inner wall, I found a narrow ventilation slat near the top of the door. Through the mesh, the morgue was revealed in harsh, clinical detail. Vivian Shaw stormed in, radiating fury like a supernova. Her Louboutins struck the floor like gunshots. She was flanked by two hulking orderlies who looked more like bouncers than medical staff.
She thrust a sleek tablet against the chest of the nearest orderly. "Delete Petrova's records. Wipe them completely. Zero trace." Her manicured finger stabbed the screen, displaying a photo – me in handcuffs, looking hollow-eyed and broken, taken during my intake.
"Then prep OR-3 for Patient 114. Sterilize everything. Alexander expects fresh hippocampal samples harvested and cryo-preserved before the FDA inspection team arrives tomorrow morning. No delays, no excuses."
The orderly paled visibly, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed hard. "But Ms. Shaw... the prion risk... handling infected neural tissue without Level 4 containment... it's suicide!"
CRACK!
Vivian moved with viper speed, swinging the heavy tablet like a club. It connected with the side of the orderly's face with a sickening thud. The screen shattered instantly, splintering into a spiderweb of broken glass. Beneath the digital carnage, the device's wallpaper was revealed – a selfie of Vivian and Alexander, cheeks pressed together, grinning against a backdrop of snow-capped mountains. The date stamp in the corner was unmistakable: THE DAY AFTER THE CRASH.
"You'll get paid your blood money," Vivian hissed, her voice dropping to a venomous whisper that carried perfectly in the silent morgue, "when I get my fucking cure. Now move her!" She gestured dismissively towards Anya's drawer.
The orderly touched his bleeding cheek, eyes wide with shock and fear. "Yes, Ms. Shaw," he mumbled, his defiance extinguished. They moved to the drawer, preparing to wheel the gurney away.
As they fumbled with the latch, Vivian's phone emitted a soft, melodic chime. Her transformation was instantaneous and chilling. Her posture softened, her face arranged itself into a mask of tender concern, and when she answered, her voice was liquid honey: "Alex? Are you alright?"
Alexander's voice, tinny and strained with distance, crackled through the speaker: "Is it done? Is she contained?"
Vivian turned slightly, lifting the intact Prometheus vial she still held. She tilted it, watching the blue liquid catch the light, her expression one of almost religious reverence. Her reflection was caught in the polished stainless-steel door of an adjacent storage cabinet. In that distorted mirror image, stripped of the careful lighting and makeup, the truth was laid bare. Around the outer edges of her irises, visible only in the cold, unforgiving steel, was a faint but distinct brownish-copper ring. Kayser-Fleischer rings.
Wilson's disease. A rare, genetic disorder causing toxic copper accumulation, primarily in the liver and brain. Untreated, it led to liver failure, neurological degeneration, psychosis, and death. The only definitive treatment? Regular, lifelong infusions of plasma derivatives containing a specific binding protein... a protein abundantly present in RH-null plasma.
The pieces of the grotesque puzzle slammed together with the force of a physical blow. Vivian's lies, her desperate need to control my blood, her frantic search for a "cure" – it wasn't just about maintaining a lie or securing Alexander.
She was dying.
And my blood, my cursed RH-null blood, was the only thread keeping her from plummeting into a terminal spiral. She wasn't just a villain; she was a drowning woman clinging to the only life raft in sight, willing to drown everyone else to stay afloat.
In the absolute darkness of the fridge, Cruz's hand found mine. His skin was cold, but his grip was firm and steady. He pressed something cold, hard, and familiar into my palm – my switchblade. The handle was still faintly sticky with the smear of his blood from when he'd cut my restraints earlier. A grim reminder.
His lips brushed my ear, his breath a warm puff against the frigid air: "They come for you at midnight. Archer's direct order. Extraction team. Be ready."
Outside, Vivian's brittle composure shattered. A guttural scream of frustration ripped from her throat as she lashed out, kicking over a nearby tray laden with gleaming autopsy instruments. Scalpels, bone saws, and rib spreaders clattered and crashed across the tile floor in a cacophony of falling metal, drowning out the faint snick as Cruz expertly disabled the fridge's external locking mechanism with a twist of his lockpick.
Above the din, mounted high on the wall near the exit, a television screen flickered to life, its volume suddenly booming through the morgue:
"This just in – Black Oak Capital CEO, Reginald Thorne, has issued a categorical denial of any involvement in the attack on Alexander Sterling. Calling the allegations 'reckless slander,' Thorne has instead released new evidence..."
The screen split. One side showed a smirking Thorne at a press conference. The other displayed a grainy, color-enhanced satellite image. It showed the rain-lashed Connecticut backroad, the dark shape of the wrecked Maybach half-submerged in the ditch, the surrounding trees blurred by motion.
But cutting through the rain, intersecting precisely over the wreckage, were two perfectly straight, brilliantly green laser lines. They formed a precise crosshair directly over the driver's seat.
It wasn't an accident. It wasn't random corporate espionage. It was a targeting grid. A military-grade designation for a hit.
Vivian Shaw stood frozen in the center of the morgue, silhouetted against the damning image on the screen, her reflection in the steel still showing those telltale copper rings. She wasn't just a liar or a thief.
She was the perfect, unwitting patsy. And someone far more powerful had set her up to take the fall.
The crash of surgical instruments faded, leaving only the television's drone and the frantic thudding of my heart against my ribs. On screen, Black Oak's CEO, Reginald Thorne, spread his hands with practiced innocence. The satellite image burned behind my eyes: those intersecting green lasers over Alexander's wrecked car. A kill box. Vivian stood frozen in the morgue's center, her reflection in the stainless steel a grotesque portrait of dawning horror – the Kayser-Fleischer rings around her irises stark under the fluorescents. She wasn't just a liar. She was a puppet, and someone had just severed her strings.
Cruz didn't waste the chaos. His fingers, numb from the fridge's cold, worked with grim precision. A final, almost inaudible snick sounded from the door's internal mechanism. "Lock's bypassed," he breathed, his voice tight. "Stay behind me. Move only when I say." He eased the heavy steel door open a crack, scanning the aftermath of Vivian's tantrum. Scalpels and bone saws lay scattered like metallic confetti near the exit. The orderlies and Vivian were gone, likely drawn by the escalating lockdown commands blaring from hallway speakers.
We slipped out, the morgue's sterile chill clinging to us. Cruz moved like smoke, retrieving a fallen rib spreader – its curved, claw-like prongs gleaming wickedly – before darting towards a secondary door marked PATHOLOGY LAB - AUTHORIZED ACCESS ONLY. His lock picks were out again, faster this time. "Cover the hall," he ordered, his focus absolute.
My back pressed against cold cinderblock, I watched the corridor. Red emergency lights still pulsed, casting long, leaping shadows. Shouts echoed from distant wings, punctuated by the occasional crash or scream. Aster was imploding. The stench of fear had intensified, mingling with something new: acrid smoke. Distant alarms began a different, deeper wail. Fire.