Kael Woods
The car roars through the night, headlights slicing through the dark as the city rushes past in a blur of lights and anger. My grip on the steering wheel is iron-tight, knuckles white. I barely feel the vibration of the road beneath me; all I can hear is Chad’s voice echoing in my head—They almost cut off her fingers.
Every word burns. Every image I imagine of Amy in pain tears something raw inside me. I push the accelerator harder. The tires screech as I pull up to the Palace gates.
Two guards rush forward, their flashlights raised. But the moment they see me, their stance falters.
“Mr. Woods—” one starts, voice shaking.
“Open the gate,” I command, stepping out of the car. My tone leaves no room for negotiation. “Now.”
They exchange quick glances, their hands trembling. “
