Angela stepped forward—naked, unhurried—picking up the discarded gun from where I'd dropped it. She checked the chamber—calm, professional—then pointed it casually at Camilla's head.
"Move again," she said sweetly, "and I'll blow your pretty little brains out. Master might forgive you eventually. I won't."
Mira pulled Nicole's face against her chest—shielding her daughter's eyes from the blood, from Drake's stumps, from the gun.
"Close your eyes, baby," Mira whispered, voice shaking. "Don't look. Just breathe."
Nicole was in shock, broken—but obeyed, clinging tight.
I crouched—eye-level with Megan now—gun barrel tapping her cheek lightly, almost gently.
"Look at me," I said.
Megan's eyes snapped to mine—wide, furious, terrified.
