The door groaned shut behind him, drowning out the last echo of blood-soaked silence from the meeting room.
Leonhardt stood at the edge of the hallway, shoulders square, boots rooted in the warped floorboards of The Last Call. His coat still fluttered slightly from the motion, the heavy scent of sweat and smoke clinging to the folds.
His hand flexed once—just once—as if recalling the weight of the sword he hadn't finished swinging.
His face was blank.
Inside?
His blood screamed.
It wasn't the kind of rage that came with heat. This was colder. Denser. Like lead poured into his bones and left there to harden. The type of fury that made breathing mechanical and movement deliberate, or else something would break.
He could still hear Enzo's voice in his head. That damned smirk and his smug words.
"Touching my daughter…"
"You're not even human…"
"Do you think a normal woman would be interested in a freak like you…"
He inhaled slowly.
