The fire alarms in the penthouse didn’t scream. They chimed. It was a soft, melodic pulse, like a luxury hotel announcing room service, entirely detached from the fact that the lobby eighty floors below was currently burning to the ground.
The smoke hadn't reached them yet. But the smell of ozone and scorched blood was already suffocating the room.
Michael stood over the dead enforcer. He didn’t sway. He didn’t stagger. But the black, necrotic veins spider-webbing across the crisp white cotton of his dress shirt told a different story. Silver poison. It was fast, and it was lethal to anything that wasn’t a Sovereign. Even for him, it was a ticking clock.
Jane looked at the body on the floor. Then she looked at Michael’s abdomen.
She didn't scream. She didn't cry. The glass boxes in her
