The coffee never happened.
Victor stood in the center of the ruined foyer, the porcelain cup in his hand trembling just enough to create ripples in the black liquid. He didn't drink. He couldn't. His throat had constricted to the size of a straw.
Outside, framing the shattered remains of the front door, was a tank.
It wasn't a military vehicle, not in the human sense. It was a siege engine of the Infernal Development Corporation. The chassis was painted a cheerful, construction-safety orange, but the treads were encrusted with dried blood. The main cannon, a rifled barrel large enough to fit a man inside, was stenciled with a cartoon goblin giving a thumbs-up.
The turret rotated. The mechanical whine vibrated through the floorboards, traveling up Victor's legs and settling in his stoma
