Hades
We tore the room apart.
Every panel, every joint. We unscrewed the bolts from the canopy frame, peeled back the carpet, pried at the floorboards with sonic blades calibrated to expose even microfractures.
Still nothing.
No seams.
No trapdoors.
No signs of life.
Just dust and air and the rising scent of defeat.
I stalked the perimeter again, jaw clenched tight enough to snap bone. "She's not here," I muttered. "She's not fucking here."
"Hades—" Cain started, but I cut him off with a wave of my hand.
Elliot had cried himself hoarse this morning, his fingers digging into my coat when I promised I'd bring Kael back.
I told him it would be okay.
I told him I would fix it.
I told him lies.
A five-year-old boy who buried his mother just days ago had been forced to listen through the walls as the man who saved him—was taken. Dragged. Hurt.
And all I'd done was fail.