Forty hours. That was all Weber had left. Not for a plan, but for a confession.
The safe house felt like a tomb. Marcus still lay on the table, his breathing a fragile rhythm mirrored by the slow, steady beep of the borrowed monitor. Anya had managed to stabilize him, but "stabilize" meant he wasn't actively dying. The silver was still in him, a slow, toxic clock of its own.
Alexander had left an hour ago, a storm contained in human skin. "I'll buy you time," he'd said, his voice flat. He didn't specify how. Scarlett had stayed, a silent, watchful presence near the door, her eyes scanning the street below for the "sanitization" teams she knew were coming. She was a loaded gun, waiting.
