Elena Rostova’s combat boots hit the linoleum with rhythmic, concussive force.
She wasn’t running away from the wall. She was sprinting straight back to Nurse Station 4B.
Behind her at the end of the east corridor, Julian remained on one knee by the cast-iron junction box at the foot of Room 414. His hands were locked on the gauze-wrapped scalpel handle, holding the flat brass tang inside the narrow keyway.
The digital countdown clock on the central telemetry wall flashed in blinding red strokes:
00:54.2
00:51.8
00:48.5
Every tenth of a second tore away with an acoustic chirp that resonated through the floorboards.
