The safehouse was a crumbling villa carved into the limestone cliffs outside the city—silent, forgotten, and sunken deep in its own grief. Orla stood at the edge of the balcony, the night pressing against her skin like a warning. Down below, the waves crashed violently against jagged rocks, relentless, much like her thoughts.
Behind her, the air shifted.
She didn’t turn.
“You’ve been quiet since we got back,” Stanley’s voice came low and firm.
She gripped the rail tighter. “You want me to lie and say I’m fine?”
“No,” he said, walking toward her slowly. “I want you to tell me what the hell you’re thinking.”
She spun around. “I’m thinking I should have let you burn that place down years ago. I’m thinking every time I close my eyes, I see that vault… and those vials. I’m thinking I shou
