Annabelle Linton was running out of time. The only choice was to develop an antidote as quickly as possible, while she was still alive.
To put it bluntly, she was going to die anyway. It was better to risk it all. At least that way, she would have tried, and there might be a sliver of hope. If she didn't even try, she would truly just be waiting for death.
Quentin Holland stood in the office, his thin lips pressed into a hard line. Under the lights, his severe expression looked even more chilling, almost terrifying.
He looked at Simon Moss and asked in an icy voice, "What happened to Annabelle?"
"She tested the drug, our initial prototype. It caused severe side effects, and she had to have her stomach pumped and her bowels cleansed. She seems to be past the worst of it, though. She's out of danger for now and just needs to rest."
Quentin Holland said nothing, his lips still pursed. His dark, cold eyes stared out into the pitch-black night, his thoughts unreadable.
