Damian's POV
Silence has weight.
It presses against the skull, settles behind the eyes, seeps into the bones. It is never empty—not really. Silence carries memory, intent, restraint. And in my world, it is almost always temporary.
The city outside my office was still dark, the sky hovering in that thin, uncertain space between night and dawn. From this height, the streets looked orderly. Predictable. Lines of light, intersections mapped and measured.
Illusion.
I stood at the window, hands clasped behind my back, watching a delivery truck crawl through an intersection far below. Somewhere in this city, Ethan was recalibrating. He hadn't vanished. He hadn't retreated. He was waiting.
Men like him always did.
Behind me, the door opened without a sound.
Cole.
I didn't turn.
"He sent a letter," Cole said.
"I know."
Cole paused, then continued. "Delivered through indirect channels. No fingerprints. No digital trace."
"Of course not."
