The Glass House

Dr. Marcus Vane—Julian Thorne—lived in the Hills, in a cantilevered modernist house of glass and steel that looked like a scalpel blade slicing out of the mountainside.

Sasha parked the car a mile down the road and hiked up through the woods. The rain had stopped, leaving a cold, clinging mist.

She breached the perimeter fence. She disabled the external cameras. She moved like the predator she had trained herself to be.

The house was dark, save for a single light in the lower level. The surgical suite.

Sasha picked the lock on the patio door. She slipped inside. The air smelled of antiseptic and expensive lilies.

She moved through the living room. White furniture. White walls. Abstract art that looked like bruised skin.

She reached the stairs to the basement. She descended, her gun raised.

"I knew you'd come alone," Thorne’s voice echoed from the speakers in the ceiling.

Sasha spun around.

*HISS.*

Vents in the floor opened. White gas plumed out.

Sasha held her breath. She scrambled back up the stairs, but a steel shutter slammed down, sealing the exit.

Halothane. Anesthetic gas.

She tried to shoot the glass wall, but her vision blurred. Her limbs felt heavy, turned to lead.

"Don't fight it," the voice soothed. "Sleep, little weapon."

Sasha crumpled to the floor. The last thing she saw was the white ceiling spinning into darkness.