Elliot's POV
It's too quiet.
I sit in my chair, back straight, hands resting on the arms like I'm still some kind of king. The fire cracks in front of me, but I barely feel its warmth. The flicker glints off the untouched scotch in my glass. It's been sitting there too long. I haven't touched it.
The clock ticks behind me. Soft. Precise. Almost smug.
Something's wrong.
Even the fire sounds cautious. Like it doesn't want to be noticed.
I reach for the drawer. Slow. My hand is steady, but my gut isn't.
The pistol waits for me like an old friend I hoped never to need again. Polished. Loaded.
I wrap my fingers around it.
Click.
Safety off.
I stand. My steps sound too loud against the carpet as I walk toward the door. This room is soundproof—no noise ever comes in, or out.
That was the point.
But as soon as I open the door—
he flinches from the smell.
Blood.
Copper and cordite. Gunpowder and meat. .
"What the fuck is happening in this house"
