Page 74 - DeepRestFlipFinal

NICHOLAS BOOTHMAN
casting a shadowless, oppressive glare. No windows.
No furniture, save for the narrow cot she lay on.
A Cage.
She tried to sit up. Her muscles protested,
screaming. She managed to push herself to a sitting
position. The room spun for a moment, then settled.
She was dressed in a thin, grey jumpsuit. Her
clothes, her bag, the chronicle – all gone.
Panic, cold and sharp, pierced through the haze of
the sedative. Liam. Had he made it? Had he truly
escaped? The last image burned in her mind: his leap
through the shattered window, her own scream for him
to run.
A click. A section of the white wall slid open,
revealing a heavy, reinforced door.
A figure stepped into the room.
Tall. Impeccably dressed in a dark suit. His hair,
iron-grey and meticulously parted. His face was older,
distinguished, but his eyes were utterly devoid of
warmth. Cold, calculating, intelligent.
The Director.
He walked with a quiet, almost predatory grace,
stopping a few feet from her cot. He didn't speak
immediately, merely observed her.
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