The seconds turned to minutes, and minutes stretched into fifteen agonizing ones. Yet Robert's eyes stayed glued to the massive iron door ahead.
He didn't blink. He didn't move.
His bloodshot eyes were fixed, red veins crawling across his whites like cracks in glass. Every muscle in his jaw was locked tight, and still, the door didn't budge.
The silence around him only made it worse.
"Stop it," Trixie snapped, crossing her arms with a sharp flick of her hair. "There's nothing we can do but wait our turn. Staring at that door isn't going to make it open faster."
Her tone carried more irritation than concern, but Robert didn't react. His whole being was consumed—his mind, his nerves, his pride—all chained to that door.
Robert's fists trembled.
The firstblood. The one thing he'd been waiting—no, fighting—for, stolen from right under his nose. His breath came out shaky, and the disappointment tasted like bile.
