The air was brittle with the scent of old paper and bitter coffee.
Sloane stood in the conference room of his private office building, eyes trained on the glowing monitor. Vicente's best tech specialists had helped him reroute every trace to find Levins.
But the doctor had vanished.
His phones were dead. His townhouse—cleared out. No sign of struggle, no sign of a rush. Just… gone.
"He's gone," the voice on the speaker crackled. "Private jet left for Geneva this morning. Leased under a shell corporation."
Sloane didn't answer.
The room felt too quiet. His hand clenched on the desk. He could feel it again—that sick feeling, the one that lived in his ribs. The burn beneath his prosthetic. The fire at the back of his throat.
Cynthia.
She had always smiled too softly. Spoken too kindly.
She'd tied the noose. Again.
-----------
When Sloane returned home, Avery was out. Sugar meowed and curled near the stairs, sensing something brittle in his gait.
He didn't stop to pet her.
