The silence that followed the withdrawal of my knife from Lieutenant "Gray's" skull was not ordinary silence; it was a rupture in the fabric of time—a moment where the air in the underground pumping station froze, becoming heavier than lead.
I was kneeling in a pool of water mixed with blood and rancid oil, gasping violently like a drowning man who had just been pulled from the depths of an icy ocean.
Hot tears, born from the neural shock of memory transfer, carved clean trails across my face smeared with mud and black blood.
I slowly raised my head. My hands were trembling hysterically—not an act this time, but from the sheer horror of the nightmare I had just swallowed from the cortex of that dead man's brain.
"Twenty-four hours…" I whispered, my voice hoarse, shredded like glass being crushed underfoot.
Eva, who was still aiming her sniper rifle at me with suspicion, lowered her weapon by an inch.
"What did you say?"
