The silence inside the abandoned factory pressed down, thick with the smell of rust, damp concrete, and despair.
Ash's suggestion, getting information, hung in the frigid air, a necessary but terrifying prospect. Maya stared at her bandaged hand.
Even in the gloom filtering through high, broken windows, the unnatural darkness seemed to pulse faintly against the dirty cloth. It wasn't just pain anymore; it was a cold, creeping wrongness seeping deeper.
"Yeah," she finally rasped, the sound loud in the cavernous space. "Information. Before my hand falls off or the cops plaster Jagu's picture on every screen." She tried for grim humor, but it fell flat.
Jagu let out a low, pained rumble from where he lay near Ash. The dim light caught the stark contrast between his natural, faintly veined stone and the spreading patches of lifeless gray.
