The mansion was still a battlefield, shards of glass scattered across the floor like the remnants of something beautiful that had been destroyed without mercy. The silence that followed the chaos was heavy, almost sacred, like the calm after a bomb drops.
Ethan sat on the floor, one knee bent, the other leg stretched in front of him. Blood from his arm dripped slowly into the cracks between the tiles. Valerie had gone to find the first aid kit, but his thoughts were too loud for him to care.
Then came the intercom.
Three firm rings. Ethan blinked, not really hearing it at first—until it came again.
He rose with a slow breath, muscles still tight, grief wrapping itself around his spine like a cold chain. He opened the door, and there stood Steph.
Steph, always the calm one, the fixer, the quiet shadow behind the empire. But today his face was pale, his expression tight with something between sorrow and rage.
