The house was too quiet.
Not the warm hush of peace, but the strained, hollow stillness that followed disaster. A silence that felt like it might crack beneath the weight of the things it was trying not to say. The kind of silence that didn't soothe—it watched. It waited.
Sloane stepped into the room like a man trespassing on something sacred. His body moved slowly, as though each limb remembered a different version of pain. His shoulder ached. His wrists were raw. His coat clung to him like ash, the hem still damp from rain and ruin. He hadn't changed out of the suit—creased, soot-smudged, the collar bloodstained where the night had gotten too close.
The soft breath of the wind through the cracked window stirred the curtains like a sigh. Beyond it, dawn bled pale blue over the city skyline, painting the walls in colorless light. The shadows were long and unmoving, the air cool and still, untouched by the chaos that had built this silence brick by brick.
