The belfry was a cage of shadows and cold wind. As Arm stepped into the light of a single flickering lantern, he didn't find the Dean or a shadowy operative. Instead, leaning against a massive bronze bell, was a boy who looked barely twenty, dressed in a sharp, understated suit that screamed old money.
"You're late, brother," the boy said, his voice no longer distorted by a synthesizer. It was clear, melodic, and held a hauntingly familiar cadence.
Arm stopped, his hand dropping to his side. "Who are you? Where is the person I spoke to on the phone?"
"You're looking at him," the boy smiled, stepping forward. He had the same sharp jawline as Arm, the same piercing, deep-set eyes. "My name is Mike Armitage. And before you ask—yes, Silas is my father."
The world seemed to tilt on its axis. Arm felt a cold sweat break across his neck. "You're lying. My father has no other children. I am the sole heir. You're just another grifter trying to leverage a scandal."
