Chapter 255

Elodie’s POV

The sun didn't rise on Friday morning so much as it bled through the mist, a bruised purple light that offered no warmth. At precisely 7:45 AM, the silence of the Boreal Slope was shattered by the rhythmic, heavy thumping of rotor blades.

Three sleek, obsidian-black helicopters—unmarked but unmistakable in their predatory design—cut through the fog like sharks through dark water.