Charles's mind was a storm of jagged edges, each thought cutting deeper than the last. Clara. Of all the women tied to him through Lust Sync, Clara had been the rock—sharp enough to spot danger before it struck, stubborn enough to face it head-on. The image of her eyes, once fierce and clear, now glowing with the same unnatural crimson as Vivian's, twisted his gut like a blade. He could still hear her laugh, see the way her lips quirked when she called him out on his recklessness. Now, that same face was a stranger's, corrupted by a force he didn't fully understand.
The limo's tires hissed against the rain-slicked asphalt, the city's neon lights smearing across the windows as they sped toward the penthouse. Mia sat beside him, her face pale from the memory of the Crimson Chain's grip, her hand clutching his with a desperation that made his chest ache. Her fingers trembled, but her grip was iron, as if she feared he'd vanish if she let go.
