Romance

  Aurora&#39;s Perspective
  Darkness.
  A thick, viscous dark, cloying with a chemical sweetness.
  My head felt like it had been stuffed into a rusty blender—a dull, throbbing ache radiating from the base of my skull, a persistent buzzing filling the void. Consciousness was a weight, dragging me down into murky water, something pulling me deeper just as I tried to surface.
  Groggy. Muffled sounds, as if through layers of heavy blankets.
  The steady beep of machinery? And… voices?
  I fought to open my eyes. My eyelids were slabs of lead.
  Light—harsh, blinding white—needled into the sliver of vision I managed.
  A shape moved into view. Lab coat. Glasses. Eric Milton.
  That bastard. That lying, treacherous son of a bitch.
  His face loomed close. I could smell him—the sharp tang of disinfectant, stale Americano, and beneath it, the nauseating, sweaty scent of a fanatic&#39;s excite

  Aurora&#39;s Perspective
  Just as my heart threatened to stutter-stop, my mind conjuring every horror-movie vivisection scene, a heated argument erupted outside the door, voices rising as they approached.
  Eric Milton&#39;s voice, shrill and cracking with outrage: &quot;...You can&#39;t! She&#39;s *my* project! *My* discovery! Her data is unique! Give me more time, just a little, and I&#39;ll have a breakthrough! You can&#39;t just take her!&quot;
  Another voice, calm, steady, carrying unshakeable authority. I couldn&#39;t make out the words, but the tone was overwhelming.
  &quot;No! You don&#39;t understand! She&#39;s art! She&#39;s science! You brutish thugs swinging your fists have no concept of her value!&quot; Milton was shrieking now, pure frenzy and defeat.
  Then, more footsteps. Heavy, synchronized boots, moving fast.
  *BANG!*
  The room&#39;s heavy, sealed door flew open

  Brett&#39;s Perspective
  I was starting to get it. In this hellhole, if you wanted to live, to not be treated like a bug waiting to be squashed, you learned two things: keep your senses sharp, and make yourself look like trouble.
  Luka and a couple of the other marginally &quot;friendlier&quot; guys in this makeshift pack had been giving me pointers. Not fancy combat moves or pack lore. Just the dirty, basic rules of street survival.
  &quot;Pup, ears up, nose working,&quot; said a stray they called Scarface—a deep claw mark furrowed his left cheek—as he chewed on suspicious jerky. &quot;No one&#39;s your friend here, but everyone&#39;s a signpost. They get tense, guards are coming or someone nasty&#39;s on the move. They relax, maybe you can breathe. Scents, sounds, even how tight their muscles are when they walk… you notice it all. We ain&#39;t territory wolves with a cozy den. We&

Aurora&#39;s Perspective
  Darkness.
  A thick, viscous dark, cloying with a chemical sweetness.
  My head felt like it had been stuffed into a rusty blender—a dull, throbbing ache radiating from the base of my skull, a persistent buzzing filling the void. Consciousness was a weight, dragging me down into murky water, something pulling me deeper just as I tried to surface.
  Groggy. Muffled sounds, as if through layers of heavy blankets.
  The steady beep of machinery? And… voices?
  I fought to open my eyes. My eyelids were slabs of lead.
  Light—harsh, blinding white—needled into the sliver of vision I managed.
  A shape moved into view. Lab coat. Glasses. Eric Milton.
  That bastard. That lying, treacherous son of a bitch.
  His face loomed close. I could smell him—the sharp tang of disinfectant, stale Americano, and beneath it, the nauseating, sweaty scent of a fanatic&#39;s excitement. He was smiling. It chilled me to the bone, every pore screaming *danger*. It wasn&#39;

Chapter 259