Clawed fingers score the reinforced glass, diamond hard, fuelled by madness. Her hair chars, blackens, whips the air like a thousand furious snakes. Her eyes fill with night, dark and glistening.
Lizard’s hand falls, suddenly limp.
Tiny fingers wrap themselves around his, seeking comfort as the storm rages all around.
He looks down.
The girl stands beside him.
“It’s you,” she says, smiling. “The nice man.”
“I'm not him. He… made me.” The demon child claws the air, shrieking. “Made her too.”
“No.” She points at the men in the coats. “They made her. So why do you feel bad?”