His voice carried no anger.
No surprise.
Only resignation.
As if this conversation had been waiting for us long before either of us arrived.
The sun had begun to dip behind the mountains, casting long, bruised shadows across the highway. I watched the Iron Reapers moving in the mirrors of the truck—a tight formation, protective, unwavering.
I thought about the ledger. I thought about the anonymous donations. And I thought about the man who spent his afternoons delivering diapers while knowing I was in his office, digging through his life, waiting for a chance to kill him.
Why was he letting me do it?
"We're not the ones you should be afraid of," Damien said suddenly, breaking the silence. He was staring out the back window, his arms crossed over his chest.
"I'm not afraid of you,"
