A faint tremor passed through Dylan Brooks’ chest as he stood beside the worn-out bed. The air inside the small, dimly lit room carried a mixture of medicinal bitterness and old wood, the kind that lingered in places where hardship had taken root for far too long. He inhaled quietly, but it did nothing to steady the sudden tightness in his throat.
“Aunt Lane… Emily didn’t come…” he said softly, his voice barely above a whisper.
His fingers slipped into his pocket, feeling the smooth, cool surface of the pill he had prepared—the Primevital. He rolled it between his fingertips, his mind already racing ahead, calculating how he could convince her to take it without raising suspicion. It wasn’t something an ordinary person could easily accept, and the last thing he wanted was to frighten her
