The silence in the ruined lobby was a heavy, breathing thing.
It was filled with the faint smell of ozone and the quiet, crunching sound of Julian Cross's last shred of arrogance being ground into dust.
Miles pushed himself up, his body aching with a deep, bone-weary exhaustion.
The overload had left him feeling hollowed out, like a battery that had been completely drained and then jump-started with a lightning bolt.
Clara let go of his hand, but she didn't move away.
She stayed kneeling beside him, a silent, steady presence.
An anchor.
His anchor.
He got to his feet, his legs a little shaky.
The lobby looked like a warzone.
The marble floor was like a spiderweb of cracks.
The walls were scorched and pitted.
The two bodyguards were still unconscious, little more than discarded heaps of expensive muscle in the corner.
And then there was Julian.
