5.i.
Demand
staggered through the endless corridors of the thirteenth floor office. A Betty had raked her sharpened digits across
his shoulder, gouging parallel wounds in his purple suit. Blood blackened the fabric as it seeped
through the fibers. His mauve tie was
cinched around his leg, closing a Jack-inflicted puncture in the side of his
thigh.
He felt
small. Smaller then when they’d entered
the Jacob Center
Tower . Small enough that his tailored clothes were
hanging loose. His breathing was labored
and his fingers felt cold.
And he
stumbled onward.