I shove the blast door wider and step squarely into a lie.
Past the threshold lies a sterile, pristine white room.
It's an impossible sight down here.
The ceramic tiles look freshly scrubbed, gleaming under a grid of completely intact laboratory lights. It's as if time simply gave up and refused to touch this place. There are rows of waiting benches, identical to a hospital triage ward, and an empty reception desk flanking the wall, its monitor dead and devoid of power.
It's too clean. Too quiet.
The only thing ruining the illusion is the two corpses slumped near the far exit.
The bodies are motionless, soaking in a spreading pool of their own blood. Even from a distance, the deterioration of the flesh is obvious.
It only takes me a second to recognize the tattered clothes. It's Oliver's partners—the farmhands who panicked and bolted with Danton.
So they managed to get through here...
