The silence following Silas's departure was heavy, broken only by the clinical hum of the life support systems. Arm lay there, his mind a battlefield of fragmented memories and surging adrenaline. He was trapped in a body that felt like lead, but his spirit was clawing at the walls.
The heavy door to the ICU suite creaked open. Arm didn't look up, expecting a nurse with another syringe of oblivion. Instead, the sharp, rhythmic click of designer heels on the linoleum made his eyes snap toward the entrance.
Maggie Dupont stepped into the light. She was dressed in a sharp, charcoal-grey suit, her hair pulled back into a bun so tight it looked painful. She looked less like a visitor and more like an inquisitor.
"You look like hell, Armitage," Maggie said, her voice devoid of the usual high-society fluff. She didn't approach the bed; she stood at the foot of it, arms crossed over her chest, observing him like a specimen.
