Hades
Without waiting for permission, she reached across me and tapped the screen.
A file appeared on the terminal.
Muzzle Cam Footage.
My breath caught.
The screen flickered.
Then—
The video began to play.
At first, there was only static—faint, broken, and distant. Then came the sound. A scream.
"Please, no!"
Not any scream.
Danielle's.
It struck me like a blade between the ribs, sharp and immediate, stealing all the breath from my lungs. I gripped the terminal tighter as the feed fought to stabilize, my heart hammering against my ribs, a tremor tearing down my spine. The footage sharpened just enough to make out the scene, and nausea curdled in my gut.
The Royal Convoy was in ruins. A car—no, what remained of one—stood mangled at the center of the frame. Glass glittered across scorched asphalt. Metal was peeled open, torn like paper. Blood streaked the windows, and in the distance, fire licked at the night air, casting the carnage in a sick, pulsing light.
