The morning after the Purge, the Obsidian penthouse felt like a fortress holding its breath. The shattered glass had been swept away, the scorched terrace sealed off, but the scent of ozone and violence still lingered in the air, faint but undeniable.
Emily sat on the edge of the velvet sofa in the living room, clutching a mug of herbal tea—prepared by Ethan himself this time. She was still weak, her skin pale, but her eyes were clear. The white fire had burned away the poison, but it had also burned away her naivety.
Ethan paced the room, his phone glued to his ear as he coordinated the lockdown of the city's shifter underground. He stopped mid-stride when the private elevator chimed.
He didn't move to open it. He stared at the display panel, his brow furrowing. "I didn't authorize any
