The mechanical hum grew into a roar that shook the very foundation of the obsidian-and-glass fortress. Julian's grip on Styler's shoulders loosened, his eyes darting toward the massive pivot door. He expected to see the frantic, tear-streaked face of a middle-class doctor or perhaps the cold, clinical arrival of Mild.
Instead, the security system let out a series of high-pitched, dying chirps as the locks were bypassed with surgical efficiency. The heavy door swung open, but the figure that stepped into the frame was not Elena.
It was a woman dressed in a sharp, blood-red trench coat that contrasted violently with the grey marble of the estate. Her hair was pulled back into a severe, high ponytail, and her presence filled the room with a volatile, feminine fury that even Styler, as a psychiatrist, found difficult to categorize immediately.
Julian stepped back, his face pale. "Who the hell are you? How did you get past the perimeter?"
