The rain in Geneva was relentless, hammering against the windows of the safe house like a thousand tiny fists.
Wayne sat at the table, staring at the photographs spread out before him. They were images of the dead—soldiers, civilians, children caught in the crossfire of the endless war. Each face was a reminder of the cost of his crusade, the price that others had paid for his obsession.
"Wayne," Lucy said, her voice soft. "You've been staring at those for hours. You need to eat something."
"I'm not hungry."
"You need to sleep."
"I'll sleep when this is over."
Lucy moved to sit beside him, her shoulder brushing his. "Wayne, look at me."
He turned to face her, his eyes hollow, his face drawn with exhaustion.
"None of this was your fault," she said. "You didn't start this war. You di
