A hum. Low, vibrating, not in the air but in her spine . It had a rhythm—not mechanical, but organic. A pulse. Thrum. Thrum. Thrum.
Layla reached out a gloved hand.
Silence. Not the gentle silence of a library, but a hungry, predatory silence. It pressed against her helmet, her skull, her teeth. She heard her own heartbeat as a distant, panicked drum. layla extreme
Her nickname wasn't just a brand; it was a warning label. A hum. Low