The National History Museum stood dark and untouched when Killian arrived, its grand stone facade lit only by the thin, wrong-colored wash of moonlight the city had grown used to over the last three days. No broken windows. No forced entry. Whatever chaos had consumed the rest of downtown apparently hadn't found its way here yet — either overlooked, or simply too far from anywhere people were still desperate enough to loot.
He parked two blocks away and covered the rest on foot, quiet, watching every alley and doorway out of habit rather than immediate suspicion. The streets tonight had been quieter than the pharmacy run — fewer screams, fewer car alarms, the particular exhausted lull that came, he suspected, from a city finally running out of people who hadn't yet learned to stay silent.
The main entrance was locked, predictably. Killian didn't bother with the door.
