The Year I Stopped Being His novel Chapter 370

"Is Sloane still alive?"

Quinn's hand released the bedsheets, reaching forward toward Garrison.

Her hand trembled in the air, her festering fingertips seeping blood that dripped onto the sheets. "Did you use the Vitas Strain on Sloane? She survived—she's fine, isn't she?"

"Her body has antibodies—she must have antibodies! Garrison—beg Sloane for me, I just need a vial of her blood—just a small vial is enough—please, just one small vial!"

Garrison trembled with rage.

He looked at Quinn collapsed on the floor, the woman he had been used to protecting behind him since childhood, and for the first time, found her terrifyingly unfamiliar.

"Quinn, do I need to remind you—the reason you're like this is that you stole my Vitas Strain!"

Garrison gritted his teeth, enunciating every word. "You tried to harm someone else, but it backfired on you. You brought this upon yourself!"

"You still want me to beg Sloane to save you? What right do you have to ask her for anything?! Just days ago, you tampered with her IV pump, trying to kill her while she was unconscious. Now that the Vitas Strain has turned on you, you come collapsing at my feet, demanding I drain her blood to save you. Do you even know what she's going through?"

"Her body is fighting with everything it has to clear the tumor cells. Every single treatment drains her already fragile immune system. And now you want me to wake her up and ask her to give you her blood—for you—the person who nearly strangled her to death?"

His voice pitched up sharply, like a blade drawn from its sheath. "Quinn, I am telling you explicitly: you will never show your face in front of Sloane again. Whether you survive this is entirely up to fate. You brought this upon yourself!"

Garrison's cold resolve caused Quinn to break down instantly.

She collapsed on the floor, using her relatively intact hand to support herself on the cold tiles. She dragged herself inch by inch toward Garrison's feet, her forehead nearly touching his shoes.

With that, he turned and walked toward the door.

His leather shoes clicked heavily and steadily on the floor of the isolation ward, never once looking back.

*

In the dead of night, Quinn quietly opened her eyes...

She listened to her own breathing—heavy, short, each inhalation feeling like sandpaper grinding against her lungs.

The festering area on the back of her hand was even larger than it had been at dusk. The edges of those red patches had merged into one solid mass. She tried to bend her fingers, but her skin was pulled too tight to move.