Adrian's sleepless hunt
Unaware of the tempest raging overhead, the city below twinkled with naive obedience. Its lights shimmered against rain-slick streets, traffic flowing as predictably as blood through veins, unaware that something feral stalked its rooftops. From the highest balcony of the penthouse tower, Adrian Cross stood motionless, a dark silhouette carved against the glow of the skyline. Wind whipped his coat, rain misted the air, and the night pressed cold fingers against his skin—but he felt none of it.
His hands were locked around the steel railing, knuckles bleached white by the force of his grip. Anyone watching might have mistaken the posture for rage. It wasn’t. Rage burned hot and brief. What lived in Adrian’s chest was colder, heavier, and far more dangerous: obsess
