The hallway of the Dravik estate felt like the interior of a tomb, lit only by the faint, rhythmic pulse of the security sensors that glowed like tiny, malevolent eyes along the baseboards. Amara stood just outside her bedroom door, her breath held so tightly in her lungs that it made her chest ache with a dull, throbbing pressure. She knew the routine of this house. Every forty-five minutes, the night guard stationed at the end of the west wing would rotate with the guard from the foyer to ensure no one grew complacent. She had exactly three minutes of shadow to work with.
She moved with a desperate, frantic grace she didn't know she possessed, sticking to the velvet runners that dampened her footsteps. Every creak of the house felt like a scream in the oppressive silence.
