The hospital smelled of bleach and dust, a sickly combination that clawed at my throat as I stepped inside.
The automatic doors creaked, protesting against the cold night. Fluorescent lights flickered overhead, casting the hallways in a jittery, uneasy glow. Every echo of my boots on the cracked tiles felt amplified, like the building itself was listening.
I gripped my coat tighter and checked my pistol. The message from Eva's old number burned in my mind: HELP — St. Vincent Hospital, East Wing, 3rd Floor.
Empty corridors stretched before me.
No patients. No nurses.
Not even a janitor.
Just shadows.
I moved cautiously, every step measured. Doors creaked on their hinges, vents rattled, and the hum of some old machine whispered from the darkness. My instincts screamed: This is a trap.
And then I heard it.
A soft shuffle behind me. Too deliberate to be coincidence. I spun, gun raised. Nothing. Just the shadows.
A figure materialized from the darkness, masked, silent.
And then another. And another.
They came like smoke, blending into the shadows, circling me with precision. I fired, once, twice. Bullets rang against metal and tile, but there were too many. They moved fast, practiced, synchronized.
A sharp crack at my side sent me stumbling. Pain lanced through my ribs. My vision blurred.
I ducked behind a cart, trying to catch my breath, trying to understand how so many could appear so suddenly.
Their masks reflected the flickering lights.
No faces. No voices.
Just intent.
I swung around a corner and fired blindly. One went down, but two more blocked my path. Panic wasn't an option. Every second counted. I had to survive.
Then a sharp blow to the back of my head.
Blackness.
I woke up hours later.
The sterile smell of hospital disinfectant was gone, replaced by a faint metallic tang. My head throbbed. My vision was fuzzy, but I could make out the faint outline of someone standing over me.
Tall. Imposing. Calm.
Marcus Ellory.
Finally, face to face.
The man who had been a shadow in whispers, a name Liara had spoken.
The one whose intentions were unreadable… until now.
And as I tried to move, I realized: every instinct I had honed over years of chasing the city's darkness meant nothing. Marcus held the board, and I was a single piece.