Morning did not arrive gently.
It arrived sterile.
White light poured through reinforced glass, touching walls that still smelled faintly of smoke and discharged ammunition. The mansion stood intact. Guards repositioned. Systems recalibrated.
But something intangible had shifted.
Not fear.
Alignment.
Matthew stood alone in his office, jacket discarded, sleeves rolled, fingers resting against the edge of his desk. He hadn't slept.
Across the estate, Aiden remained unconscious in the medical suite. Stable. Monitored. Breathing steady.
But the image of him collapsing in that corridor replayed on loop.
They hadn't come for Noah.
They'd come to measure him.
And now they had data.
Matthew didn't intend to let them collect more.
Noah hadn't left Aiden's side.
Not once.
When the estate doctor confirmed the concussion would resolve within hours, Noah simply nodded. He didn't relax. He didn't speak.
He sat in the chair beside the bed and watched Aiden breathe.
