Noumenon sat quietly, her body rigid with tension, as the memories came flooding back. Her mind replayed the horrifying events she had witnessed, the image of Cross in his black hooded trench coat burned into her consciousness. Every detail of that night was sharp and vivid—the calculated precision of his movements, the unflinching red glow of his eyes, and the chaos that unfolded in his wake. To the onlookers who hadn’t expected his sudden appearance, he had been nothing less than an avenging specter, an executioner cloaked in shadows.
She had seen it all: the brutal s*******r of the henchmen, lethal paper blades, violent fury, and the sea of blood that flooded her father’s mansion’s gallery. The brutality was overwhelming, sickening even, and she had felt her stomach churn at the sight
