Justin – POV
Glass walls. Bright lights. Cold steel tables. That sterile, fucking metallic stench of bleach and medicine and death.
The minute I stepped into the upper-level corridor, I felt it.
Wrong. Cold. Clinical. And it had her name written all over it.
Then I saw her.
Or—I thought I did.
Behind a sealed glass partition, a girl was strapped to a metal examination table. Wrists bound, ankles pinned in place with steel braces. Her blouse torn open, chest rising and falling in shallow, labored gasps. A mop of dark hair. Pale skin. Blood at the corners of her mouth.
For one long, shattering moment—my heart stopped.
"June."
I didn't remember drawing my weapon. Didn't remember slamming the butt of it against the scanner panel beside the door. The red light blinked, denied access. I didn't wait for a second rejection—I slammed my body through the reinforced glass, shattering it in a hailstorm of safety shards.
Alarms screamed.
Doctors shouted.
