Owen sat in the corner of his living room, the phone pressed loosely to his ear as he stared out at the night sky. His hand ran down the side of his face, jaw tense. He didn't like hearing Penelope's voice when she was in this mood. Cold. Calculating. Hungry for blood.
She had called expecting firepower, but all he had to offer were ashes.
"I'm telling you the truth," Owen said slowly, his voice low with frustration. "I don't know anything that could hurt her. Nothing that would cause real damage."
There was a long pause on the line.
He could hear Penelope's breathing—controlled, sharp, like she was trying to contain her temper behind the weight of her expectations.
"How is that even possible?" she finally snapped.
