The hospital lights were too white.
Too clean.
They made everything feel unreal, like this wasn't happening, like Aiden hadn't collapsed in a spray of glass and blood, like Vinny's scream hadn't torn through the mansion and lodged itself permanently in Matthew's chest.
Matthew paced.
He hadn't stopped pacing since they arrived.
The hallway outside the operating room stretched endlessly, sterile walls swallowing sound except for the muted beeping behind the closed doors. Vinny sat in one of the plastic chairs, hands shaking so badly Matthew had wrapped his coat around him just to keep him warm. Or maybe to keep himself together.
Vinny's clothes were still stained red.
Not dried. Not old.
Fresh.
Matthew had killed men before. He had burned Tom alive and watched the flames swallow screams. He had felt nothing then—only relief, only justice sharpened into cruelty.
But this?
This was different.
This was Aiden.
