Issac Monroe stood in the center of the cramped living room, the dim light casting long, weary shadows against the peeling wallpaper. He looked at the two women who meant the world to him—his mother, Auntie Iris, and his aunt, Candice Monroe—and felt a pang of protective exhaustion. The air in the Shantytown apartment was thick with the scent of cheap tobacco and the lingering ozone of a coming storm. Outside, the city of Redharrow hummed with a predatory energy, a sprawling urban jungle where the weak were often consumed by the shadows of the powerful.
"Mom, Candice," Issac began, his voice dropping into a register of calm authority that he had honed during his years of leading men through hell, "I need you both to listen to me. Tonight isn't the night for stubbornness. I want you to hea
