Anais stood frozen.
Gas hissed through the vents, white and steady, filling the sealed room with a cold chemical burn. The stench hit fast. Not strong enough to knock her out—yet. Just enough to make her lungs tighten and her throat dry up.
She shoved Maris behind her.
On the other side of the reinforced glass, Harlan Quinn stood with a slight tilt to his head, one hand resting on a sleek cane, the other tucked into the pocket of his long black coat.
He smiled, slow and deliberate.
“I must admit,” he said, voice crisp through the intercom, “I expected Cassian to be the reckless one. But here you are. Alone. In my house.”
Anais scanned the room for a way out. No vents. No secondary door. The walls were lined with smooth glass and steel. Clinical. Designed to isolate.
Maris tugged at
