Chapter 11 For Anna Cruz

• He was silent for a long moment, the only sound our shuffling feet and the dripping water. "Smart," he finally rasped. "So damn smart. Wanted to be a vet. Loved animals... hated seeing anything suffer." A weak chuckle. "Hated me joining the Marines. Said I was trading one kind of violence for another." He coughed, a wet, painful sound. "Started getting sick... tired, tremors. Eyes... they got that ring. Copper. Cook County diagnosed Wilson’s. Said it was aggressive. Then Archer showed up... smooth talker. Said Nephilim had a trial drug. Compassionate use. Promised it could stabilize her, buy time." His voice broke. "She trusted him. I... I let her trust him. Two weeks later..." He couldn't finish. The memory of his sister liquefying from within was too raw, too mirrored by Anya’s recording.
• His legs buckled. I barely kept him from collapsing face-first into the sludge. He was burning up now, the fever spiking rapidly. Delirium glazed his eyes. "Gotta... gotta get the proof... for Anna... for Anya..." he mumbled, struggling weakly.
• Suddenly, a new sound echoed down the tunnel. Distant, but unmistakable. Not rats. Not dripping water. Footsteps. Multiple pairs. Heavy, purposeful. And the faint, sweeping beam of powerful flashlights cutting through the gloom far behind us.