The office was a disaster.
Shattered glass crunched under Gerald’s boots as he stepped inside. The once-pristine liquor cabinet was in ruins, the scent of spilled whiskey thick in the air. Chairs were overturned, papers scattered across the floor. A broken lamp lay in the corner, its bulb flickering weakly.
But the real storm wasn’t in the destruction.
It stood by the window, silent and still, staring down at the city below.
Victor.
His back was rigid, his hands clenched into tight fists at his sides. He had barely spoken since receiving the video of Miguel. The room had taken the brunt of his rage, but Gerald knew that wasn’t enough.
Not for Victor.
Not when his son was out there.
Gerald shut the door behind him, the soft click breaking the heavy silence.
“Say something,” he said
