NATE'S POV
The world didn't just shake; it screamed. The second missile strike hit the basalt spine of St. Jude's Key with a concussive force that travelled through the floor and straight into my marrow. Dust, ancient and gray, rained from the ceiling of the maintenance corridor, coating the blood on my hands and the sweat on my brow in a layer of grime.
"Hold her down, Adrian!" I roared over the sirens.
We weren't in a sterile operating room. We were in the narrow, red-lit throat of a service alcove, tucked behind a humming transformer that provided the only light we had left. Clara was pinned to the floor, her breath coming in ragged, terrified hitches. Her eyes were wide, fixed on the ceiling, reflecting the rhythmic strobe of the emergency lights.
"Nate, please," she gasped, her voice barely audible over the roar of the ventilation fans. "Don't... don't do this. Let me go. I just want to go home."
