Ethan flicked his hand, and Donovan went hurtling backward like a rag doll.
He didn't bother with the others. Instead, his gaze locked on Lyla. She was on her knees, clutching Zachary's lifeless body, tears streaming down her face, grief etched into every line of her expression. The sight made Ethan's chest tighten painfully.
He needed to leave—fast. If he lingered, this illusion would push him into a murderous frenzy. He couldn't let himself lash out at these familiar faces, knowing they were nothing but conjured phantoms. Killing them would serve no purpose; in fact, it was probably exactly what the illusion wanted—to make him slaughter his friends and the woman he loved with his own hands. Even knowing they weren't real, the act would still leave a scar on his mind… maybe even plant the seeds of an inner demon he couldn't shake.
With that thought, he stepped forward. Glass shattered beneath his feet, and he leapt from the eighty-eighth floor.
