CHAPTER 7

​The garage was silent, the low hum of the ventilation system the only sound untilVivian reached the matte-black sedan hidden behind the concrete pillar. The passenger door clicked open automatically as she approached.

Vivian slid into the seat, pulling her father's flash drive from her pocket and dropping it into the central console.

​Julian was leaning back in his seat, his arms crossed over his chest, his dark eyes fixed on her face. He didn't look at the drive; he looked at the slight smudge of dirt on her cheek and the tight line of her mouth.

​"You're late by forty seconds," he said, his voice a dry, low drawl. "I was about to use the fire axe."

​"The server is completely gone," Vivian said, leaning her head back against the leather headrest, her chest rising and falling as the adrenaline finally began to drain from her system. "Marcus thinks I had a hysterical breakdown and deleted the weather files because I was scared. He doesn't suspect a thing."

​Julian didn't smile. He turned the key in the ignition, the modified engine roaring back to life in the empty garage. But as he shifted the car into drive, he didn't head for the exit ramp. He stopped the vehicle directly in front of the main structural support pillar of the parking garage.

​"What are you doing?" Vivian asked, looking at him.

​Julian didn't answer. He pointed out the front windshield, toward the base of the massive concrete column.

​Vivian leaned forward, her eyes narrowing as she followed his gaze. Running right through the center of the four-foot-thick reinforced concrete pillar was a fresh, jagged crack. A tiny, steady stream of dark, muddy groundwater was bubbling out of the fissure, pooling quietly around the front tires of the car.

​The water didn't look clear. It looked black, thick with silt, and it smelled faintly of old iron.

​"The structural faults under the city grid are shifting," Julian said, his voice losing all of its sarcasm, turning completely flat and serious. "The barometric metrics on my dashboard are dropping by three millibars every ten minutes. This shouldn't be happening for another two weeks, Vivian."

​Vivian stared at the black water rising around the rubber of their tires. Her mind flashed back to her father's journal entry: The thermohaline circulation is failing.

‘The timeline changed’, she whispered to herself, making sure he doesn't hear her. Her hands clenching into fists in her lap. ‘Because I bought the villa early... because we moved the files... the timeline is accelerating.’

​Julian slammed his foot onto the gas pedal, the car rocketing up the ramp toward the surface. "Whatever we have to do, we need to hurry. I guess time is not on our side."

The transit yard felt different in the dark. The silence was heavy, broken only by the steady, rhythmic clink of tools hitting metal as Julian worked on the main bunker door.

​They had been down here for three days straight, barely sleeping, living off black coffee and the driving adrenaline of a ticking clock. Vivian’s hands were no longer the soft, unblemished hands of a socialite. The skin across her palms was rough, covered in small, angry blisters that had broken and hardened into raw calluses.

​"Hold this side," Julian muttered around a heavy steel bolt he held between his teeth.

​Vivian stepped forward, placing her shoulder against a massive, three-inch-thick steel reinforcement plate they were mounting to the inner frame of the hatch. The metal was freezing cold, smelling of grease and industrial primer. She pushed with everything she had, her legs bracing against the concrete floor.

​Julian worked with a fast, brutal efficiency. He didn't move like a rich kid playing soldier; his movements were precise, his large hands handling the heavy pneumatic wrench with complete familiarity. As he leaned into the frame to tighten the upper bracket, his coat slipped down his right arm, exposing the grey cotton of his undershirt.

​Vivian’s breath hitched.

His right shoulder was broad, thick with muscle, and completely smooth. There was no jagged, poorly stitched line across the skin. There was no scar.

​She stared at the unblemished skin, a deep frown touching her brow. 

In the chaotic future she had left behind, Julian Cross was a legendary, untouchable figure—a man whose very name commanded terror in the lawless sectors. Yet, she distinctly remembered seeing a horrific, jagged, twisting scar running from his collarbone down to his shoulder blade. It looked like a wound from a violent blast, the kind of injury that should have left a man crippled, though he carried it like armor.

​Looking at him now, vibrant and flawless in the dim light of the warehouse, she couldn't help but wonder: What kind of catastrophe could possibly happen to injure a man as powerful and calculating as him? What monster or disaster in the coming days was lethal enough to leave that permanent mark on his flesh?

​"You're staring, Vance. Am I that irresistible to you?" Julian said, his voice a low, dry rasp through the gloom. He didn't look up from the bolt, but a tiny, mocking smirk pulled at the corner of his mouth. "If you're looking for a weakness, you'll have to try harder."