The evening air was heavy with smoke and silence.
Caleb stood at the edge of the street, his breath fogging against the flashing red-and-blue lights that painted Kalisa's home like some grotesque canvas. The house looked like a battlefield as broken pieces of glass could be seen shattered everywhere, wood splintered, doors hanging loose on bent hinges. The air smelled faintly of gunpowder, charred fabric, and something metallic he didn't want to name.
His heart raced as his eyes swept over the wreckage. No movement. No sound. Just the echo of violence, now cold and abandoned.
"Kalisa…" he muttered, his voice breaking in the stillness.
He pulled out his phone, his hands trembling despite himself. He dialed her number once, twice, three times. Each time it went to voicemail.
