Kalen's eyes fluttered open to the acrid sting of smoke and the copper tang of blood in the air. His head throbbed, and every muscle ached, but the silence was worse. It wasn't the quiet of safety—it was the hollow, suffocating stillness that came after death.
Bodies lay scattered across the floor, the once-bustling safe house reduced to a slaughterhouse. Viper's lifeless stare met his from across the room, cold and unblinking. Kalen's breath caught in his throat, but he forced himself to stay still, every nerve on edge.
Footsteps crunched on broken glass somewhere nearby. He froze, willing his heartbeat to slow, straining to hear. Voices—low, sharp—faded into the distance. The killers were leaving.
Only when the front door creaked shut did Kalen risk moving. Slowly, painfully, he dragged himself upright, his side burning with every breath. His hand trembled as he reached for his phone, dialing the ambulance first, his voice tight but steady as he gave the address.
Then, almost on instinct, he called Nico.
"Pick up… please," he muttered.
The line connected.
"…Kalen? What the hell happened?" Nico's voice was laced with alarm.
"It's bad. Everyone's gone. Only… only I made it out."
Somewhere across the continent, morning light spilled into the luxury apartment Leon had booked. The faint hum of the city outside contrasted sharply with the chaos Kalen had just escaped.
Leon's phone buzzed violently on the nightstand. Ayla's arms were wrapped snugly around his waist, her breathing soft and even against his chest. He didn't want to wake her, not when the fragile peace between them had only just begun to form again. With careful precision, he eased her arms away, sliding out of bed without disturbing her.
He stepped into the hall before answering.
"Nico?"
The voice on the other end was tense. "Leon… Viper's dead. Whole place was hit last night. Only Kalen made it—scratches, nothing serious—but… it's bad."
Leon's gaze drifted toward the closed bedroom door, his jaw tightening. Ayla had no idea her world was about to tilt again. She'd been through enough pain, enough loss. He wanted to shield her from every storm, but storms always seemed to find her.
As much as the news burned in his chest, a small flicker of relief stayed there too—Kalen had survived. And right now, that was the only scrap of good in an ocean of bad.
He ended the call, his mind already working ahead. Pulling out his phone again, he ordered his private jet to be ready within the hour. Then, without missing a beat, he called room service for breakfast—her favorite, and black coffee for himself—before heading into the bathroom. Cold water hit his face, but it did nothing to wash away the heaviness settling in his chest. He would have to tell her soon… but not yet. Not while she was still wrapped in a dream where nothing was broken.