Mordred's Pov:
The hospital loomed like a goddamn fortress as I pulled up on my bike, the engine's growl cutting off into silence that felt too heavy.
My head still throbbed from the hangover, but the rage from the photos—those fake, madeup photos,had sharpened everything else.
I'd spent the morning piecing together scraps: my hacker buddy was still digging on the IP, Jax had no leads on the brunette girl, and that taunting message from Anonymous "She's next" looped in my skull like a threat I couldn't ignore.
I had to see Kianna and warn her. Explain that the whole thing was a setup, that I hadn't touched that girl and that the blackout was my stupid way of coping with her pushing me away. If she'd just listen...
I stormed through the sliding doors, ignoring the receptionist's protest. "Sir, visiting hours…." and beelined for Lysander's room.
