Camille stood in the center of the corridor, wearing a pristine beige trench coat that looked entirely out of place in the dusty warehouse.

She held a small, silver pistol in her gloved hand.

“There you are,” she said, a cold smile spreading across her lips.

I looked past her, searching for Adrian or Isabella, but the hallway was empty.

Only a pool of fresh blood on the concrete floor near the exit suggested what had happened.

“Where is he?” I demanded, keeping my voice steady despite the terror clawing at my throat.

“Adrian is on his way to see his grandfather,” Camille said, stepping closer. “And you are coming with me.”

She raised the pistol, pointing it directly between my eyes.

I did not blink.

My back pressed hard against the cold steel of the vault door behind me.

Inside, three feet away, Lena, Noah, and Oliver were holding their breath in the dark.

I had told them to play the quiet game, the one where we pretended to be statues hiding from the winter wind.

“He is not yours to take, Camille,” I said.