Something slammed into the facility door.
Skyy froze mid-step, spine tightening. He wasn't supposed to be here. Not yet. He hadn't even told Chné he'd left the caravan early—he'd returned alone, restless, drawn by the gnawing feeling that something was wrong.
And something was wrong.
It knocked again. Harder.
Not fists. Not wood. It sounded like iron being driven by rot. A wet, slapping, thudding force. Almost…hungry.
Skyy looked around. The overhead lights flickered as if sensing what approached. The entire structure groaned, just slightly, as if under pressure. A heat began leaking in around the sealed windows, one Skyy could feel on his cheek. The air tasted of charcoal and sap.
Prisitsky was in the back room, screaming.
Skyy rushed down the corridor, shoes squealing against the linoleum. He threw open the door—and halted.
