When Blake Nolan closed to within roughly ten feet of his suspended son, something in his expression abruptly twisted.
Without warning, he raised the dagger high, knuckles whitening as his jaw clenched so hard it looked ready to c***k.
“When you reach hell,” he snarled through gritted teeth, every word soaked in venom, “don’t blame me for it!”
The instant the final syllable left his mouth, his body exploded forward—not toward Matthew Nolan, but in a sharp, sudden lunge aimed directly at Dylan Brooks.
The blade flashed.
Its point was aligned with terrifying precision, aimed squarely at Dylan’s chest—where the heart would be.
It was a desperate gamble. A final act of madness. A father betting everything on the slim hope that chaos could rewrite fate.
“Looking for death.”
The words we
