Nevan sat on his leather chair, legs crossed like a monarch surveying his kingdom. His obsidian eyes bored into the void before him, jaw clenched so tight the muscle beneath his stubbled cheek twitched rhythmically. The manila folder in his hands—ordinary, bureaucratic—contained extraordinary horrors.

Blood stained the photographs inside. Not literally, but in Nevan's mind, every image dripped with the crimson aftermath of last night's work. The blood of a man who had invaded his thoughts since darkness fell. A man who had dared to touch what, in the twisted geography of Nevan's world, belonged exclusively to him.