Breedbus ((top))

He pressed a syringe into her palm. “Or you could use this. On me. Right now.”

It looked like a decommissioned city transit bus, its yellow paint faded to the color of old teeth. But the windows were welded shut with iron grates, and the destination sign above the windshield didn't list a route. It read, simply: FORGE. breedbus

“Because I’m giving you a choice,” he said. “No one on this bus has ever had one. Not even me.” He pressed a syringe into her palm

“You’ll have to go through me,” Thorne said. breedbus

It now read: PURGE.