Night had draped Liss's villa in a heavy veil, the dimmed light slanting through the window blinds casting jagged shadows across Kael's face as he sat on the edge of the bed for him.
His hazel eyes, heavy with fatigue, fixed on the dusky glow, the house unnaturally quiet—a rare, fragile peace.
Everyone was asleep, or at least playing the part, but for Kael, rest was a distant hope, his mind a ticking clock of worry.
The Haven was gone, reduced to rubble and ghosts, a casualty of the Looter's attack.
Rebuilding wasn't an option—not with an unknown threat circling, a predator who'd sent an S-Class villain to hunt him.
The Reaper was dead, her body a smear on the pavement, but her strings were pulled by someone with power, someone who saw Kael's empathetic resonance as a weapon to twist heroes into monsters.
The thought chilled him, a cold weight in his chest, heavier than the bruises from too much fighting, too much healing, too much everything.
