The safe house penthouse felt different tonight—quieter, as if the city itself was holding its breath. Luna stood before the bathroom mirror, watching steam dissipate from the glass like ghosts of the day's terrors. The hot water had washed away the grime and blood from Building 12, but the phantom weight of the zip ties still pressed against her wrists, the echo of Damien's voice still whispered in her ears.
She touched the bruise along her collarbone, wincing not from pain but from memory. How many times had she replayed those moments? The cold metal chair, the harsh fluorescent lights, the way Roberts had looked at her with such calculated cruelty. Her fingers trembled as she reached for the crescent moon keychain on the marble counter, its silver surface catching the light like tears.
