When Amy saw the smile lingering on Aren's lips, something inside her finally snapped.
"Are you laughing?" she demanded, her voice sharp enough to cut. "Is this funny to you?"
Aren's expression didn't change. To him, her fury carried no real weight—no more than the outburst of a child who had lost control.
He watched her in silence, a silence so deliberate it pressed against the walls of the cell. That calm unsettled her more than any shout ever could.
The smile stayed. Not wide. Not mocking. Just present—cold and deliberate, like something that had chosen not to move.
Amy had been afraid of her brother for as long as she could remember. He had never hurt her, never even threatened her, yet his presence had always felt distant, detached from anything human.
Every attempt she had made to reach him had ended the same way: rejection without words. The only thing that had ever softened that distance was their father.
She had adored him.
Her father's hair was a light green, and his eyes were like rubies.
But where their father's gaze had been warm, Aren's was empty. Not cruel. Not wild. Simply vacant, as though the world before him existed at a lower altitude.
And the world had noticed.
Even with his illness and isolation, Aren had never truly disappeared. At the rare social gatherings he attended, people gravitated toward him without realizing why.
His words were measured, his presence commanding. He didn't force control—he invited it, and people stepped into it willingly.
That was why the murders had shaken everything.
The news had spread everywhere: Aren Donovan had slaughtered his father and the guests inside the mansion. Those who once admired him now demanded his death.
"Why?"
Amy's voice echoed against the damp stone walls. She clenched her fists, her nails biting into her palms as she stepped closer to the bars. A thin beam of light cut across Aren's face, leaving her in shadow.
"Father did everything for you. He visited you when no one else did. He taught you when you were too sick to leave your wing. Why would you kill the only person who ever treated you with kindness?"
"Do you have any proof?"
The question landed softly—and stopped her cold.
"What?"
Aren shifted slightly, resting his arm on his raised knee, his chin settling into his hand with infuriating ease.
"I'm asking whether you have proof that I killed our father."
His tone was calm. Almost courteous.
Amy stared at him, at the dried blood still staining his skin, and felt heat rush to her face.
"Are you mocking me?"
He watched the vein pulsing at her temple.
"No," he said evenly. "I'm stating the situation as it is."
His eyes glinted faintly in the dim light.
"The woman who accused me believes I'm guilty. The soldiers who arrested me believe I'm guilty. Everyone involved has already decided. Belief, however, is not evidence."
"So what?" Amy snapped. "You're saying you're innocent?"
Aren didn't react. He sat there as though the answer no longer mattered, as though the truth rested somewhere far beyond her reach.
For the first time, doubt slipped into Amy's chest—small, sharp, unwelcome.
"Did it ever occur to you," Aren asked quietly, "that I might have arrived after everything was already over?"
Her breath hitched.
"That's impossible!" she shouted. "Don't lie to me! You were covered in their blood! You were standing in the middle of it! Are you saying someone framed you?"
She laughed sharply, the sound twisted.
"There should be a limit to your shamelessness."
The smile faded.
What replaced it made her step back instinctively.
"Shamelessness?" Aren repeated, his voice stripped of warmth. "I merely pointed out that I am being accused without proof. Or has the world decided that innocence is no longer relevant?"
For a moment, Amy couldn't speak. That familiar chill crept up her spine—the same one she had felt as a child, standing too close to him for too long.
"If…" Her voice came out lower now. Controlled. Dangerous."If you are truly innocent, the investigation will reveal it. But if you are lying—"
She leaned forward, her eyes burning. "Then you will pay for every lie and every drop of blood. I will make sure of it."
She turned and walked away, her footsteps disappearing into the corridor.
Aren exhaled slowly and leaned his head back against the wall.
"She still loses her temper too easily," he murmured, clicking his tongue. "That hasn't changed."
His gaze drifted to the ceiling.
IMFA was a graveyard disguised as a prison. A place designed to erase people. He had no intention of dying there—but if the path led through it, then he would walk it.
Carefully.
"For now," he whispered, closing his eyes, "let's wait."