Maria watched from the lobby, a breath of reprieve left her lips. Her husband will be okay in the end.
The private entrance was all glass and polished stone, designed to feel secure without appearing fortified. Rain streaked down the tall panes in restless sheets, distorting the parking lot beyond into a blur of white lights and shadow.
Dr. Virelli had just stepped into the storm beneath the umbrella her guard held for him.
Thunder rolled low across the sky.
Maria's gaze lifted instinctively toward the ceiling as the building vibrated faintly with the sound. For a moment she watched the flash reflect against the glass.
Then her eyes lowered again.
The doctor was nearing the car.
He reached into his coat pocket, perhaps for his phone.
His body jerked.
It was subtle at first. A strange hitch in his step.
Then she saw the truth.
A sudden bloom of red against his shirt, shockingly bright even through the rain.
He began to fold in on himself.
The umbrella slipped from the guard's grip.
Dr. Virelli collapsed onto the wet pavement.
His body suddenly jerked again as fresh blood sprayed.
Maria's breath caught.
Her mind struggled to catch up with her eyes.
Blood spread beneath the doctor, mixing with the rainwater and running in dark rivulets toward the drain.
"Down!" one of her guards shouted.
The world snapped back into motion.
Two men moved in front of her instantly, blocking the glass. Another seized her arm, pulling her backward away from the lobby windows.
"Inside. Move."
She stumbled once as her heels slid against the marble, but they steadied her without breaking stride. More security rushed past toward the entrance, weapons drawn, scanning rooftops already swallowed by rain and darkness.
Maria twisted her head just enough to see past the shoulders of her guards.
The doctor lay motionless.
They ushered her down the corridor and into a secured interior office. The door shut the lock quickly clicking into place.
Silence pressed inside the room, suffocating everyone present.
Maria stood still for a moment, staring at nothing.
Her pulse hammered in her ears.
She had turned away one neurologist.
Within a day of another arriving he had been executed in front of her.
Maria lowered her hand.
Her eyes hardened.
The Court had answered she couldn't figure out how he had known her push to take more power in the court, but Kane will pay.
***
Quentin didn't fake politeness and knock this time. He let himself into the suite with a keycard and closed the door softly behind him.
Rowan Kells was already upright, seated at the small table near the window. His bandages had been rewrapped, fresh gauze stark against bruised skin. The rifle case lay closed at his feet.
He looked tired.
But alive.
Quentin's lips curved.
Without preamble, he reached into his coat and flicked something across the room.
The gold coin spun once in the air before Rowan caught it reflexively.
"Good job," Quentin said.
Rowan examined the coin in his palm, jaw tightening.
"I deserve more," he muttered. "You didn't tell me I was killing the doctor of the fucking Powers family."
Quentin shrugged lightly, as if they were discussing delayed luggage rather than a high-profile execution.
"A job is a job."
Rowan's eyes flashed. "That wasn't some random neurologist."
"No," Quentin agreed calmly. "It wasn't."
Silence stretched.
Rain tapped faintly against the window behind them.
Rowan leaned back in his chair, wincing slightly at the pull in his ribs. "That kind of target draws heat."
"It does," Quentin said pleasantly.
"And?"
"And you handled it cleanly."
Quentin stepped farther into the room, removing his gloves one finger at a time.
"Don't worry," he added. "You can stay holed up in the Continental for a while. Free of charge."
Rowan looked up sharply. "Free?"
"I'm impressed with the work," Quentin replied simply.
That seemed to take some of the edge off.
Rowan turned the coin over again between his fingers, weighing it. "Still think I earned a bonus."
Quentin's smirk returned. "Earn another."
A beat.
Rowan exhaled through his nose, too tired to argue further. He pushed himself to his feet slowly.
"Fine," he grunted. "Then at least tell me where a guy can get a drink."
Quentin laughed softly.
"I'll have some sent up."
Rowan nodded once, already lowering himself back into the chair.
As Quentin turned toward the door, he paused briefly.
"Rest," he said lightly. "You've made quite the impression tonight."
He left without waiting for a reply, the door clicking shut behind him.
Inside the suite, Rowan stared at the coin in his hand.
***
Nolan sat by the window of his penthouse, the skyline stretching out in fractured gold beneath low clouds. A half-finished drink rested on the table beside him, condensation trailing slowly down the glass.
In his hand, a gold coin rolled across his knuckles.
Back and forth.
Back and forth.
The metal caught the light each time it turned.
He looked tired.
Not physically exhausted.
Worn.
"So fucking tired," he muttered under his breath.
A presence shifted in the reflection of the glass.
Quentin stood beside him now, hands loosely in his pockets, expression composed but curious.
"What has you in such a mood?" Quentin asked lightly.
Nolan didn't look at him.
"Everything," he said after a long pause.
The coin continued to roll.
Quentin tilted his head. "We're making real progress against the Court what's your issue."
"To what end?" Nolan shot back, finally turning toward him. "What is the end goal here, Quentin? What comes next—another fucking war? More deaths? More people I kill with just a word?"
His jaw tightened.
"How many times do we have to do this?"
Quentin's expression hardened slightly.
"You're spiraling."
"I'm asking a question."
"And I'm telling you we're winning."
"At what cost?"
Nolan stood abruptly, the coin clutched tight in his fist now.
"He was a doctor," he said quietly. "Not some psychopath. Not an assassin. Not a mobster."
He swallowed.
"And I killed him for the sole purpose of making someone mad. How many lives did I ruin tonight?"
Quentin's eyes flashed. "You didn't make the call."
"You did."
"Yes."
"And I agreed."
Nolan's voice rose, frustration cracking through restraint.
"I stayed silent. I knew what you were planning and I didn't stop it. That's the same thing."
Quentin's face scrunched in irritation.
"I can't deal with you when you get like this."
"Like what?"
"Like you're pretending you're separate from me."
The room felt tighter.
"These are decisions we made as a whole," Quentin continued sharply. "It is on all of us. Just because we're different doesn't mean we don't feel it."
He stepped closer.
"You think I enjoyed it?"
Nolan didn't answer.
Quentin's voice lowered, no less intense.
"You think I don't understand what that shot meant? It forced her hand. It exposed movement. It accelerates pressure on the Court."
"He still bled out in the rain."
"Yes," Quentin snapped. "And if we hesitate every time someone innocent gets caught between power structures, we lose."
Silence.
Heavy.
"You don't get to offload the guilt onto me," Quentin said more quietly now. "We share it. That's the cost of what we are."
Nolan looked back out at the city.
The coin rested motionless in his palm.
"Learn to live with it," Quentin finished. "For your own sanity."
The words lingered.
Outside, lightning flickered faintly beyond the skyline.
Inside, Nolan closed his eyes.
And the coin began to roll again.