Does he know the truth now?
Does he understand that his father—the man who raised him, trained him, made him into the weapon he is—ordered his death?
I don't know.
Can't know until I face him.
The scent leads me down a staircase—grand, sweeping, the kind of thing you see in movies about wealthy families with dark secrets—and through a series of rooms that blur together in my peripheral vision. Living spaces, dining areas, what might be a library.
I don't stop to examine any of them.
Just keep following the trail.
Until I reach an open doorway.
And stop.
The room beyond is... unexpected.
It's a game room of some kind—pool table dominating the center, dark wood and green felt, expensive and well-maintained. A bar lines one wall, stocked with bottles I recognize as high-end spirits. Leather couches arranged in a conversation area. A fireplace—unlit—with an ornate mantle.
And standing at the pool table, cue in hand, is Kai.
He's dressed simply—dark dress pants, white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His feet are bare. His hair is slightly disheveled, like he's been running his hands through it.
He looks... tired.
Vulnerable.
The observation catches me off guard.
I've seen Kai exactly twice now—once in the forest when I saved his life, once in the theater when I was dying—and both times he's radiated power, control, the absolute certainty of someone who knows their place in the world and expects everyone else to fall in line.
This Kai is different.
This Kai looks like someone who's had the foundation of his existence ripped out from under him and is trying to figure out how to stand without it.
Good, the vicious part of me whispers.Now he knows how it feels.
But another part—smaller, quieter, the part that remembers being twelve years old and watching her parents die—feels something that might be sympathy.
He doesn't notice me at first.
Too focused on the shot he's lining up—the black eight ball positioned near the corner pocket, a triangle of colored balls scattered across the table from a previous break. A whiskey glass sits on the edge of the table, half-empty, the amber liquid catching the light.
He takes the shot.
The balls scatter.
He frowns at the results—nothing pocketed, the eight ball now in a worse position than before.
"If you aimed half a centimeter to the left," I say, breaking the silence, "you would have gotten a perfect shot."
His head snaps up.
Our eyes lock.
Dark gold meeting mismatched blue-and-green.
