I spun on instinct, heart slamming against my ribs, half expecting Fitch to come sauntering back with some smug remark about timing.
But no. Of course not.
It was him again. The man in white, strolling casually through the rubble.
The anger came suddenly, like a dam bursting after too many cracks had spread across its surface. My chest was already burning from smoke, my legs trembling from exhaustion, but the moment that lazy whistle curled through the ruins and I saw him strolling forward as if this were nothing more than a moonlit promenade, something inside me snapped.
"You," I hissed, stumbling to a stop in front of him, jabbing the air with my pen like an accusation, "you did this!"
The man in white tilted his head with the same insufferable calm as before, the hood shifting like fabric stirred by a breath of wind. No flinch, no defense, no denial. He stood, still as a statue, and waited until the silence made itself unbearable before responding.
