The Vexley estate, usually so perfectly controlled and intimidating, felt strangely empty that night. The kind of silence that wasn't peaceful, but heavy—like the whole house was holding its breath. Outside, the moon hung low against the dark sky, its silver glow spilling across the neat lawns and tall hedges. Inside, the air carried a tension so sharp it clung to the skin.
Rafael moved quickly through the dim corridors, panic etched into his face. His hands gripped the arms of his wheelchair so tightly that they turned white, but the truth was slipping through—his movements were too smooth, too fluid to match the image he showed the world. His sharp grey eyes darted everywhere, scanning the shadows as though the walls themselves might give him an answer.
When he reached the security room, he shoved the door open so hard it crashed against the wall. The sound echoed like a gunshot in the stillness. Blue light from the rows of monitors lit up his face in a harsh glow.
