The ceiling diffusers of Studio B screeched like wounded animals.
Plumes of thick, blinding white vapor roared down the primary ventilation shaft and blasted into the control booth.
The air turned instantly sweltering, the wall thermometer jumping past one hundred and fifteen degrees in three seconds.
It tasted of scorched transformer oil, chlorine, and bitter battery acid.
Elena Rostova dropped to one knee beside Clara’s wheelchair.
Her emergency triage training kicked in with zero hesitation.
She pulled two large glass bottles of sterile saline from her canvas kit and emptied them over her dark wool trauma jacket.
She threw the dripping, ice-cold jacket over Clara’s head and shoulders.
