Dane's POV:
Voss's words won't let go of me.
They keep drilling into my skull, boring deeper every second, twisting and pulling like they're trying to hollow me out from the inside.
Look at her.
Over and over.
I shove my arms into the sweater, still stiff from the hospital heat, and leave before I can think too hard about what he meant.
The car slows as the Holding Complex comes into view.
It rises out of the early morning like a blade pulled clean from its sheath.
Steel stretches long and severe, pale panels catching the sun at sharp angles.
The windows are tall and narrow, black glass slicing the façade into disciplined lines, reflective enough to throw the sky back at itself.
I step out, the cold biting through my boots, and walk toward the entrance.
The doors slide open at my approach, sealing me inside with that familiar, nauseating stench—phenyl layered over old sweat, old fear, old blood that never quite leaves a place like this.
