The silence after the gunshot was deafening.
The guard's blood still pooled around her boots, seeping into the floor like it belonged there. Victor stood in the center of the room, a shadow against the light, methodical and unhurried. He removed his gloves one finger at a time, the silence pressing down like a storm about to break.
Mara's breathing was steady now.
She wouldn't give him the satisfaction.
Victor walked to the table in the corner, wiped the gun clean with a cloth, and then turned his back to her like she wasn't even a threat.
Like she was furniture.
Like she was nothing.
"I knew you'd try something," he said eventually. His voice wasn't raised. It didn't need to be. "That's what Shepherds do, right? Always pushing. Always clawing for power."
Mara didn't answer.
Not yet.
Victor turned to face her. He walked over, crouched down, eye level. His face was unreadable, a work of art carved from stone and shadows.
