The morning sun over Zurich was a cold, indifferent gold, stretching across the minimalist furniture of the penthouse like a silent intruder. Kai sat at the kitchen island, his fingers wrapped around a ceramic mug. The coffee was black, steaming, and sharp—the kind of bitterness that usually cleared his head. But today, the liquid felt like lead in his stomach. Every swallow reminded him of the darkness he had uncovered in Ethel’s archive just hours before. The memory of his parents, the scent of burning cedar, and the cold script of Ethel’s diary felt like a physical weight pressing against his chest.
Across from him, Elea was moving with a practiced, domestic grace that now felt like a high-wire act. She was humming a soft tune, the sound vibrating through the tense air of the kitchen.
