Mordred's PoV:
I slumped on the edge of my bed, the thin mattress creaking under my weight, staring at the cracked screen of my phone like it might suddenly come alive and explain everything.
It was well past midnight, and the apartment was eerily quiet—too quiet. The kind of silence that presses in on you, broken only by the distant hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen and the occasional car horn from the street below.
My room was a mess: clothes piled on the floor, empty energy drink cans scattered across the desk with posters of old rock bands curling at the edges from the damp.
But right now, none of that mattered. The events of the past few days had me wired, my mind racing in circles that led nowhere good.
The Vipers' garage still haunted me—Rico's story about Diego, that poor bastard who'd taken help from a stranger and ended up manipulated, arrested and now screaming in a psych ward about voices giving him orders.
