Inside is liquid gold.
IV alcohol, ethyl ether, formalin. Pressurized oxygen tanks. Enough to torch this wing to hell.
Seth lights up. “You’re a damn pyro in scrubs.”
“No,” I mutter, pulling out bottles. “I’m a surgeon. And this is a controlled burn.” Rory’s the pyro, but I don’t mention it. Seth needs to keep his head in the game until the right moment.
We soak sheets and wrap bottles in torn linens for makeshift Molotovs. Raphael helps quietly, efficiently. It’s methodical, almost reverent—like we’re building something sacred.
Or sacrilegious.
I pause by a bulletin board as the others prepare the ignition trail. There’s an old schedule posted, yellow with age. Names, numbers, procedures. Scrawled across it in red marker—fresher, newer—is one word:
“CIRCLE.”
Below it:“Phase IV trials moved to Sublevel 3. All non-cleared staff are to avoid chamber.”
One framed photograph shows an amphitheater. An old cross. An altar.
That’s it.
“That’s where he took her,” I tell Raphael, gesturing to the photograph.
He narrows his eyes, inspecting before they turn grim. “You just earned yourself sevenfold instead of ten, Jude.”
I’ll take it.
I step closer, brushing dust off the corner of the bulletin. The ink smears under my glove, but the intent is still clear. Whatever this Circle is, they moved it underground. Away from any detection.
Away from help.
Seth lights the first trail. The fire catches slow, licking up the soaked cloth before bursting to life. Orange glow floods the hall.
A distant alarm rings somewhere far down the corridor.
“Time to go.” Raphael slings his pack higher. “We’ve got maybe two minutes before someone reroutes.”
As we backpedal, the flames bloom behind us, devouring old beds, walls, paper files. Smoke curls up like fingers reaching for our throats. The building screams.
I glance at the others—Seth has that unhinged grin he gets before a fight. Raphael’s expression is unreadable, eyes locked forward.
Briella.
It’s all he’s thinking about.
I picture her bound, bleeding, screaming under the Prophet’s knife on that altar. Or the cross. I picture her marking. The circle he’ll carve into her. The weight she’ll carry because we were too late.
My gut clenches.
Whatever mark he puts on her—I’ll fix it. I’ll bear it. I’ll take the punishment Raphael wants to give someone—anyone. Let him break me open if it means she lives.
Let him tear me limb from limb if her heart keeps beating.
We reach the access stairwell. Smoke trails after us like a living thing.
I grip the railing and stare down into the black.
“We find that sublevel,” Raphael says. “And we end this.”
