The aftermath of a storm is a strange, hollow thing. The thunder of violence had been replaced by a silence so profound it felt heavier than any noise. My Praetorians moved with a clinical detachment that was, in its own way, more terrifying than the fight itself. They were not soldiers cleaning a battlefield; they were custodians of power, erasing the messy evidence of a regime change.
Bodies were removed with quiet efficiency, zipped into anonymous black bags. The rich mahogany of the conference table was wiped clean of blood and brain matter, the scent of antiseptic aggressively overwhelming the coppery tang of death. Shards of glass were swept away, shattered tumblers and data screens disposed of. Within twenty minutes, the room was almost pristine again, yet the ghosts of what had ha
