(LANCE)
The morning light streamed through the tall windows of the penthouse, painting the marble floors in soft gold. After weeks of safe houses, blood-stained concrete, and the metallic bite of gunpowder, the familiar scent of fresh coffee and polished wood felt almost foreign. I stood at the floor-to-ceiling glass overlooking the city, the electronic ankle monitor a heavy, unfamiliar weight against my skin. House arrest had officially begun at noon.
Eliona stepped up behind me, slipping her arms around my waist. Her touch was gentle, mindful of the healing wounds across my side and chest. She still carried faint bruises on her cheek and wrists, but the terror in her eyes from the cannery and the processing plant had faded into quiet resilience.
“How does it feel?” she asked softly, r
