ILYA
Willow hadn't been cremated, and she certainly hadn't died a normal human death. She had been extracted. Vanished into thin air right under her own son's nose, leaving behind a fabricated funeral to keep the human authorities looking down at their shoes.
I didn't waste another second on Ryder. I released his jaw, letting his head drop back heavily against the floor, and turned on my heel. Ignoring the aunt's pathetic, muffled sobbing, I walked out of the room, leaving the broken remnants of Selene's family behind in the shadows. I had a grave to exhume later, but first, I needed to see Room 65.
I pulled the crisp, blue surgical mask up over my face, the elastic bands snapping snugly against the back of my head. With a practiced, fluid motion, I adjusted the stethoscope resting around my neck, letting the metal chestpiece settle perfectly against the lapel of my stolen scrubs.
To the untrained eye, I was just another resident clocking in for a grueling morning shift.
