The Central Precinct smelled of stale coffee, industrial floor wax, and the heavy, metallic tang of reality. It was a world away from the silk-lined walls of the Obsidian Mansion or the salt-sprayed air of the island. Here, the only luxury was the five minutes of privacy the Vance legal team had managed to buy us in the interrogation room—a space where the air felt thick with things unsaid.
I sat across from Adrian, the metal table between us cold and scarred by decades of desperate stories. His hands were no longer in cuffs, but the red marks on his wrists remained—a sight that made my heart ache with a protective ferocity I didn't know I possessed. He looked different without the armor of his charcoal blazer. In just his white shirt, sleeves rolled up to reveal his powerful forearms, he
