The sterile, white corridors of the Bank of Duskhaven medical wing smelled of floor wax and industrial-grade disinfectant—a scent that usually signaled safety, but today felt like a suffocating shroud to Sienna Flynn. As she rushed toward the central registration hub, her breath coming in ragged hitches, her mind was a chaotic blur of her father’s seizing body and the bruises still darkening on Carvel’s face.
While Sienna stood in the frantic queue, clutching her leather handbag with white-knuckled intensity, Dominic Mylod stepped into a secluded alcove near the emergency exit. The shadows seemed to lengthen around him, mirroring the cold resolve in his emerald eyes. He pulled a sleek, encrypted smartphone from his pocket and dialed a direct line that few people in the province even knew
