The light in the bedroom chamber was soft, golden—drawn not from any sun or flame, but from the very breath of power lingering in the air. It pulsed like a heartbeat, like the echo of a truth that had just been screamed into existence by three women from their knees, from their mouths, from the deepest parts of their wanting.
The bed was in ruins.
Sheets wet and tangled like vines in a war-torn forest. Pillows shredded, damp with sweat, lips, and the collapse of restraint. Walls had cracked. The floor itself bore scorch-marks where chaos had spilled. One of the high mirrors was completely shattered—yet the shards remained suspended in the air, refusing to fall. Parker's aura had become a law unto itself.
And in the silence that followed their descent into madness, divine aftershocks still rolled through time.
