The room smelled of iron.
Not the sharp, metallic scent of weapons Ethan had grown used to his whole life—but the softer, bitter trace of blood on skin. Vincent's blood.
And it made Ethan's stomach twist in a way he hated.
After Lucifer stormed out, the door slammed hard enough to rattle the frame, leaving the dim room trembling in silence. The shadows swallowed everything except the single hanging bulb that flickered like it was afraid of what it saw.
Vincent lay crumpled against the wall, breaths coming in small, shattered gasps—too fast, too shallow, too desperate.
Panic attack.
Ethan had seen several of them during missions. This one was different.
This one was tearing Vincent apart from the inside.
