For one reckless, desperate heartbeat, Kilgrave considered ignoring her. The moment her trembling hand touched the glass opposite his, every instinct he possessed screamed at him to get through that door.
To hell with the protocols.
To hell with the scientists.
That should have been enough. Instead, she had somehow returned from the dead only to start giving orders again. His eyes closed briefly. A strained laugh escaped him.
When they finally reopened, the terror was still there, lingering stubbornly behind the amber, but something else had settled alongside it:
Reluctant acceptance. Because she was right. Damn her.
She was always right at the most inconvenient moments.
His blood still stained the rolled sleeve of his shirt. The puncture marks in his arm throbbed dully, almost forgotten beneath the adrenaline still coursing through his system.
Slowly, he lifted his hand and pressed it more firmly against the glass, matching hers. Not separated by inches. Separated by an entire world. "Do you have any idea," he said quietly into the intercom, "how much I dislike you at this moment?"
A few exhausted technicians stared at him, entirely unsure whether Kilgrave was joking or not. The answer, naturally, was both.
His gaze never left Niccola. "You collapse. You stop breathing. Your heart gives up entirely." His voice tightened. "You make me complete an absurdly complicated biochemical sequence while every alarm in this facility is trying to rupture my eardrums."
"And then, having returned from clinical death, your first act is to inform everyone that they are standing incorrectly."
For a moment, he simply stood there with his hand against the glass, watching her breathe. Watching her remain stubbornly, infuriatingly alive.
Then Niccola spoke about the pathogen still being active. About the airborne contamination. About the unknown interaction between the virus, the antigens, and the environment.
And something clicked. Not emotionally. Intellectually.
You did it, love... Keep the shield up.
Something shifted behind his eyes.
Not calm. It was never calm.
A tiny, cold mechanism somewhere deep in his mind abruptly engaged. The fear didn't lessen. It sharpened. Focused.
His gaze broke away from her for the first time. Slowly, he reached into the inside pocket of his jacket.
Several technicians watched with visible confusion as he withdrew a pair of round tortoiseshell glasses.
Kilgrave slid them onto his face. The laboratory snapped into sharp focus.
His eyes flicked across them with startling speed.
Information. Variables. Problems... Problems could be solved. There was still work to do and work was infinitely preferable to panic. The helplessness that had been crushing his chest moments earlier suddenly found somewhere else to go.
His hand slipped from the glass. His shoulders straightened. The trembling in his fingers vanished beneath purpose.
When he turned away from the vault, his gaze swept across the laboratory. Scientists stood frozen. Technicians hesitated. Nobody was moving quickly enough. A flash of irritation crossed his face. Not at them, but at the situation. At the uncertainty. At the fact that there were still problems left unsolved.
His voice cracked through the room like a whip.
"Why is nobody collecting samples?"
Several people visibly jumped.
"She just handed you a containment assessment and half this room is standing here gawping at the glass."
His amber eyes landed on the nearest monitoring station. "You." A technician straightened instinctively. "I want atmospheric sampling from every ventilation branch connected to that chamber. Not assumptions. Samples."
The technician immediately hurried toward the terminal.
Kilgrave had already moved on.
"Run comparative analysis against the original pathogen profile and the synthesized vaccine sequence."
His gaze flicked toward another workstation.
"And somebody isolate the antigen markers from my blood before they contaminate the rest of your data set."
The room finally began moving, fast. He strode toward the central monitoring console, eyes racing over the streams of information flashing across the displays.
The numbers settled into place with alarming familiarity. Months ago, most of it would have been meaningless. Now he could practically hear Katriana lecturing in the back of his mind.
He'd absorbed more from her than he'd ever intended.
"Increase surveillance on the vault ventilation system," he ordered. "If the Director is correct and airborne antigen interaction is occurring, we need trend analysis before we start making decisions."
A scientist hesitated. "But we don't know if airborne transmission is even possible."
Kilgrave's gaze snapped toward him. "No." His voice was cold and measured. "We don't." He paused. "Which is why we test it before somebody opens a door and discovers the answer experimentally."
The scientist immediately looked away.
Satisfied, Kilgrave turned back toward the isolation chamber. Toward Niccola. His expression softened almost imperceptibly. Only for a second. Then it was gone. Replaced by sharp concentration.
She was still trapped in there.
She was still vulnerable.
The situation was still dangerous.
And if there was one thing his time beside Niccola had taught him, it was this:
Panic never solved a crisis.
His eyes drifted to the environmental readings once more. "Get me a projection model," he said quietly. "Every possible interaction between the pathogen, the antigens, and the existing atmospheric compounds."
The laboratory erupted into motion around him. Kilgrave's eyes flicked across another stream of environmental data before abruptly narrowing.
The room continued moving around him.
Waiting. Expecting another instruction.
For the first time since Niccola's revival, he actually looked up from the monitors. His gaze landed on Dr. Carter. Then the containment team. Then the technicians. Then back to Carter again.
A strange expression crossed his face.
The single syllable carried an unusual amount of discomfort. Several people blinked. His shoulders sagged slightly. Without another word, he reached up and removed his glasses. The laboratory immediately softened at the edges once more. Data streams became less distinct. Warning indicators became harder to read, but not impossible. Just no longer demanding his attention. Kilgrave folded the glasses carefully in one hand.
The adrenaline was finally beginning to recede. Which, unfortunately, meant self-awareness was returning.
"I appear to have accidentally commandeered your laboratory."
The confession hung awkwardly in the air. A few technicians exchanged uncertain glances. Kilgrave looked genuinely annoyed with himself.
"To be clear, I am aware that you possess multiple degrees." His hand made a vague gesture toward Carter. "And I possess... none."
His eyes narrowed slightly.
"Let's not dwell on that."
For the first time all afternoon, the corner of his mouth twitched. Not quite smug. Not quite embarrassed. An uncomfortable combination of both. He stepped away from the central console. "You are the expert, Doctor." The words were sincere, which somehow made them sound even stranger coming from him. "I merely happen to be uniquely qualified to identify when my own biology is attempting to create fresh disasters."
His gaze drifted briefly toward the isolation vault. Toward Niccola. The sight visibly steadied him. When he looked back at Carter, some of the sharpness had faded from his voice.
"Proceed." A pause. "And..." Then, quietly, "... thank you."
The gratitude escaped before he could stop it. Gratitude for the blood extraction, for the vaccine, for saving her, for helping save her. Kilgrave immediately looked as though he regretted saying it aloud.