The blood-red dot in his consciousness pulsed, and fragments of memory surged forward with painful clarity. This foyer, running down those stairs as a child. That painting was of his grandfather, who'd founded the Moorne family's criminal empire. The slight crack in the marble by the door, where he'd dropped a vase during an argument with—
He pushed the memories back, forcing them into compartments where they couldn't overwhelm him.
He was Jorghan now.
His past self was dead, murdered by people he'd trusted. What stood here now was something else, something forged from two lives and tempered by survival.
Guards appeared from side corridors, and more security personnel responded to the commotion in the entrance. Alarms blared around the house.
"Intruders alert!"
They moved with expert agility, weapons drawn but not yet aimed, assessing the threat.
"Hey, who are you?" one of them said, his voice carrying the firm authority of someone accustomed to being obeyed.
