NATE'S POV
The medical wing of St. Jude's Key was buried deep within the island's thermal core, a place where the walls were thick enough to dampen the sound of the Atlantic's fury and the persistent hum of the server banks. The air here was different, sterile, flavoured with the sharp scent of medical-grade adhesives and the soft, ozone-heavy breath of the high-end air scrubbers.
I stood outside the heavy glass door of Clara's recovery suite for a long moment. My hand hovered over the biometric scanner, the same hand that had held the blade against her skin only hours before. I could still feel the phantom vibration of the Protocol 12 beacon beneath my fingertips, a cold pebble of betrayal that had nearly cost her everything.
