Colt’s POV
The air in the corridor smelled sterile, like every other place where pain was disguised as procedure. I kept my finger steady on the trigger. Not that I trusted it would be enough—not here, not against him.
Hans stood at the far end of the hallway, arms wide, smiling like this was some sort of homecoming. “You’re looking well,” he said, voice light, tone surgical. “A little tired. A little... haunted.”
“Still alive,” I answered, gun aimed directly at his head. “You won’t be for long.”
He took a step forward. I didn’t move. He thrived on power plays—had since we were teenagers and he found pleasure in watching things squirm. Bugs. Small animals. Interns. Nothing about him had changed.
“You always had the flair for the dramatic,” he said. “Always the gun. The threats. Straig
