Chapter 10 Fevered Proof

• The darkness in the waste tunnel was absolute, thick, and suffocating. It pressed in like wet velvet, heavy with the stench of decay – a nauseating cocktail of formaldehyde, chlorine bleach, rotting organic matter, and the metallic tang of old blood. The air hung cold and damp, tasting of chemicals and despair.
• The only sounds were our ragged, echoing breaths, the frantic drumming of my heart, the incessant drip of water from unseen pipes, and the steady, rhythmic blink… blink… blink of the tiny red LED on Anya Petrova’s recorder. Its weak light, reflected in the oily puddle at our feet, was our sole anchor in the void.
• Cruz slumped against the slime-coated tunnel wall, his breathing shallow and pained. The adrenaline that had propelled him through the alley fight and the lock-smashing was fading fast, leaving him pale and shivering despite the tunnel’s chill. The dark stain on his scrubs over the gunshot graze had spread.