Chapter Forty-one:
The air in the subterranean bunker was thick, tasting of recycled oxygen and the sharp, metallic tang of cold blood. Isaac stood in the center of the corridor, his silhouette a jagged shadow against the flickering emergency lights. His eyes were no longer the eyes of the man who had sat on his sofa weeks ago; they were hollowed out by a singular, burning purpose. Every time he blinked, he saw the image of Stephanie—not as his bright, laughing daughter, but as a biological harvest, her veins tapped like a tree for the sake of an experiment she never asked for.
The rage didn't make him loud. It made him silent. It made his grip on the twin blades so tight that the leather hilts groaned.
