The atmosphere in the VIP suite had turned from clinical to claustrophobic. The steady, rhythmic beep-beep-beep of the heart monitor felt like a countdown to the total dissolution of the Armitage dynasty. Silas stood by the window, his reflection ghostly against the rain-streaked glass, watching his son. Arm was still staring at nothing, his lips pale and parched, moving in that silent, obsessive mantra: Mild. Mild. Mild.
Silas felt a vein throb in his temple. He had built an empire on the bodies of his enemies and the silence of his allies, but he was currently being held hostage by the fractured psyche of his own flesh and blood.
He reached into his overcoat and pulled out a burner phone—a device used only for the darkest of "strategic alignments." He dialed a number he had hoped never to call again.
The line rang three times before it was picked up. There was no greeting, only the heavy, filtered breathing of a man who sat in a room filled with shadows.
