The silence in the car didn’t break until Davon killed the engine in front of the Burton house. It was the same sad, sagging structure, but the grey light of day seemed to magnify every flaw—the peeling paint, the patchy lawn, the skeletal willow tree looking more like a gallows than a piece of landscaping. The air itself felt heavy, saturated with a misery that seeped from the foundation.
The click of Claire’s seatbelt was a gunshot in the quiet. She was out of the car before Davon could even turn the key fully, her movements sharp and efficient, a soldier readying for a mission. He followed, his own body protesting with a symphony of aches. Each step up the creaking porch stairs sent a fresh, hot spike through his ribs, a brutal reminder of the Architect’s reach and his own mortality. H
