The darkness in the ante-chamber felt thick enough to chew.
Powdered glass from twenty exploded fluorescent tubes drifted through the red beam of Julian’s flashlight like glowing ash.
Elena was slumped against the cold cast-iron door of the Master Clock Relay cabinet.
Her right hand remained clamped over her temple, but dark venous blood continued to seep between her fingers.
The blood dripped down her neck in heavy drops, spattering against the green-painted iron of the relay box and soaking into the collar of her scrub top.
“Direct pressure,” Julian repeated, his voice quiet, calm, and steady.
He leaned his weight into the sterile four-by-four gauze pad, pressing it hard against the cut above her right cheekbone.
The glass had sliced across the supraorbital ridge above her right eye, leaving a fresh, jagged laceration across her brow.
