Elena Rostova felt the temperature drop ten degrees the instant they crossed into the rotunda.
The air smelled of boiling glass, cold ozone, and thirty-year-old photographic fixer.
“Keep your breathing shallow, Clara,” Elena advised, checking the girl’s collar. “The fumes are highly acidic.”
“It smells like the old radiology basement at Saint Jude’s,” Clara whispered, coughing softly into her sleeve.
“Worse than radiology,” Elena replied, setting her trauma kit on a low metal shelf. “This room has thirty years of trapped photographic bleach.”
“How is your bandaged ankle holding up, Clara?” Mac asked, pausing to check her footing.
“The yellow twine is holding the heel rigid,” Clara said, testing her weight. “It aches, but I can run if I have to.”
“You won’t be running far across this floor,” Julian said, his eyes scanning the vast, open space. “The glass tiles are completely exposed.”
