THE SIXTH
Prologue The basement smelled of alcohol, dust, and anxiety. Four people were gathered around an old medical chair where a young woman sat with her eyes closed. Her breathing was even, almost inaudible. A man in glasses, who looked like a doctor, monitored the readings on a screen. His face was impassive, but the tension was betrayed by his knuckles, clenched white. “Pulse is stable. Pressure is normal,” he said, more to himself than to the others. Opposite him, leaning against the wall, stood a man in an expensive suit. He wasn't looking at the woman. His gaze was fixed on the numbers on the screen, and it held the cold thrill of a gambler who had placed his final bet. The third, a woman with her hair pulled into a tight bun, was feverishly scribbling in a notepad, checking her notes against formulas on a whiteboard. Her lips moved silently, repeating the calculations. She was the creator of what was now flowing through the veins of the woman in the chair. The fourth sat...