Outside, a guard shifted. Boots against the floor. A low murmur of voices. Then quiet again.
Daniella didn't close her eyes this time. Sleep didn't feel safe anymore.
And for the first time since arriving at that mansion, she understood something without being told:
This place was not protection.
It was a battlefield.
And she was standing at the center of it.
---
The room they brought him into was not large.
It didn't need to be. Bare walls. A single table. Two chairs. One light overhead—positioned to cast shadows where it mattered. No windows. No distractions. Only pressure.
The man sat restrained. Not violently. Not bloodied. But not comfortable. Wrists secured. Posture forced. Breathing uneven.
He had been a kitchen servant. Or at least—that's what he had been pretending to be.
The door opened.
No announcement. No warning. Just the sound—heavy, final.
Santiago stepped in. Alone.
