As the paramedics dabbed at Trent's mangled face, Peter leaned in—close enough that Trent could smell the faint copper of his sister's blood still clinging to him. His voice was steady, but it carried that dangerous quiet only heard in war movies right before the trigger's pulled.
"You're coming to the police station with me," Peter murmured, each word landing like a scalpel cut, clean and deliberate. "Or I release everything I found on you. Every email. Every deleted file. Every sick little souvenir you thought you'd buried."
The words didn't just sink in—they burrowed deep, rooting in Trent's skull with the cold weight of inevitability. His swollen eyes went glassy with a fear that had nothing to do with broken bones.
