When Alphonso Koza punched open the door, the sight before him made his eyes widen, the cold mask he always wore cracking for the first time.
Easther lay sprawled on the floor, her body drenched in blood. Her short hair clung in sticky strands across her battered face, hiding and revealing in fragments a visage twisted in agony. Beneath the matted hair, a pair of silver eyes—bright, unnatural, threaded with ruptured red capillaries—bulged and shimmered like shards of molten metal. Blood streamed relentlessly from her eyes, nose, and ears. Her lips were soaked crimson, her mouth trembling, smeared with the taste of iron and suffering.
Alphonso Koza dropped to one knee, his composure cracking as he reached for her trembling form. She was screaming—raw, unearthly screams that clawed at the
