Just as things had finally begun to calm—Arabella babbling on about superheroes, her tears drying into giggles—everything changed again.
The sound came first.
It started as a low rumble, barely audible at first—like distant thunder just under the skin of the world. A tremor in the calm. A murmur that grew deeper, louder, until it thrummed in the pavement itself. Deeper. Sharper. More rhythmic.
Engines. Not one. Not two.
Multiple.
Half a dozen, maybe more.
Low, smooth, coordinated.
Too smooth.
Rex turned his head slightly.
Then saw them.
A convoy. A fleet of sleek black vehicles barreling around the corner, silent but commanding, like wolves on the hunt. SUVs. Armored. Not police, not press. Something else.
They definately weren't ordinary vehicles. They looked like escort cars—government-grade, but higher-end, polished to a mirror sheen. Tinted windows, reinforced frames, the kind of presence that screamed power without needing to flash a badge.
