Grace
he hush of falling snow carried an unnatural weight that evening. Where the streetlamps spilled their pale light across the road, a shape lay crumpled in the snow—fragile, motionless, and streaked with blood. It was Elena Morris.
The crowd gathered quickly, drawn by shock and horror. Their whispers buzzed in the frosty air, but no one dared to touch her until Max Freeman shouldered past them, his expression tight with urgency. He stooped, sliding his arms beneath her limp body, and lifted her as though she were nothing but a broken doll.
The packed snow where she had fallen was drenched in red, still steaming faintly in the bitter cold. Crimson stains streaked her bare chest and legs, a ghastly banner against the white.
Nearby, Caleb, Jess, and Connor stripped down without hesita
