Tuesday morning, The Twins’ Den. 7:23 a.m.
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None of them had slept. Not a second. The den still reeked of smoke, vodka, stale sweat and too many hours of silence. The night hadn’t given answers. It only stretched itself thin until it bled into the morning. Victor had spent it pacing, fists curling until his knuckles cracked. Dorian had spent it motionless, sprawled in the chair by the window, eyes fixed on nothing, not even blinking. Between them, the quiet wasn’t still. It breathed. Cracked. Trembled. Alive like a live wire no one dared to touch.
What the f***k do we do with this?
The thought pressed at both their skulls, louder than the sunrise, sharper than the war waiting outside. Their heads weren’t spiralling around the rogues, the Council, or even Corbin, their nemesis was alre
