Myra didn’t speak for two hours.
We left her there, hands bound to the chair, feet shackled, gag removed, under a single bulb that buzzed every few seconds like it had something to say. She didn’t flinch when it flickered. She didn’t sweat. She didn’t even blink that much. She just stared, like she could outlast the surrounding walls.
I didn’t go in right away. I paced the hallway outside, Rome leaning against the opposite wall, arms folded like he was trying not to punch through stone. Quinn sat on the floor, cross-legged, reading through a file he’d memorized twice already. Luca had left to check on the security feeds. He couldn’t stand still when he was angry.
And I was angry.
It wasn’t rage that exploded. This was quiet, concentrated, slow-burning. The kind that sits under your ski
