Marcus sat at his study desk like a man carved from tension.
Maps were spread across polished wood — shipping routes, coded dock schedules, satellite prints of abandoned factories. Pins marked every possible hideout Lucifer had ever used. Blue ink circled red threats. Red ink crossed out blue hopes.
His fingers hovered over a photograph of an industrial compound.
Think.
Vincent's face kept cutting through his thoughts — blood at the corner of his mouth, stubborn smile, the way he used to say "You frown too loud."
Marcus exhaled hard and dragged a hand down his face.
He was running out of time.
Then—
CRASH.
The sound didn't come from upstairs.
It came from below.
Glass. Ceramics. A violent, final breaking of something fragile.
