The warehouse reeked of blood.
Not just the sour iron of it, but the heavy stink of death, sweat, and smoke clinging to the beams. The floor was slick with crimson. The Devil’s Mark carved into the center of the planks was drowned in gore, the grooves filled so deep that the black stain might never wash away.
The survivors—four now, all bloodied, trembling, and broken-eyed—huddled near the far wall, staring into the dark with hollow faces. They did not speak. They did not cry. They only watched, waiting for Kael’s voice.
And in the middle of the c*****e lay the one Watcher who had not escaped.
The porcelain mask cracked down the center, shards littering the blood-slick boards. Beneath the mask, the face was pale and sharp, the kind of beauty carved from cold marble: high cheekbones, na
