Sunday Morning | Blackridge Facility

The night hadn’t ended it had only folded into something darker.

The rain hadn’t stopped, but the storm inside the old research facility had quieted. The smell of gunpowder still clung to the air, mixing with rust, smoke, and something older—memories.

Violet stood over Dr. Winslow’s body, her breath coming in slow, uneven bursts. The silence pressed in from every wall, every flickering light. Somewhere behind her, Rebecca groaned, still half conscious.

Bryan was the first to move. He kicked the gun away, his movements sharp but mechanical, as though every nerve in him was still braced for another attack. His suit was torn, blood...