Around the time Elle carved the life from the two pilots, a lone guard paced the length of a mansion balcony.
His boots tapped against the stone rail as his flashlight cut lazy arcs across the tree line. The sky above was clear enough that the patrolling helicopter was visible—a distant silhouette circling beyond the outer perimeter.
Then it faltered.
The bird dipped, rotors whining uneven for the briefest moment before the pilot pulled it level again. It hung crooked before evening out, wobbling against the stars.
The guard frowned when he saw this. He lifted his comm, and pressed a finger to his earpiece.
"Echo-Two-One," he said into the channel, tone casual. "Be advised, I just saw the helicopter wobble on its loop. Could've been nothing, but logging it."
Static hummed a second, then a voice came back, calm and unconcerned.
"Copy that, Echo-Two-One. It's probably just the pilots screwing up. No report from them on our end. Let me confirm with the crew, stand by."
