Then walked calmly into the living room like absolutely nothing unusual or violent had just occurred.
Just a butler efficiently tidying up an unpleasant mess before tea.
Professional. Unshakeable.
Me and dead Randy were the only ones left in the bedroom now.
I stood there for a long moment, just taking it all in with strange detachment.
The body crumpled on the floor in an awkward heap. The blood already pooling dark. The profound stillness of death.
I was so grateful in that moment it almost hurt.
So fucking grateful this hadn't been my violent past coming back to bite me after all.
Hadn't been Consortium Prime making good on their threats to send a message.
Just a sick man who couldn't handle losing control of what he thought he owned. Couldn't let go of the narrative he'd built.
Couldn't accept that Rose had chosen something else. Someone else.
I approached Randy's body carefully, anyway, years of thorough training making me verify.
Checked for a pulse even though I already knew with absolute certainty.
Really dead. Two perfect shots to the frontal lobe. Lights out.
Ellsworth had definitely done this specific thing before. Many, many times across decades.
I picked up the discarded gun from where Ellsworth had kicked it across the room, unloaded it, and tucked it securely into my coat pocket.
Then I paused in the doorway, looking back at the scene one final time.
Taking it in. Processing what had happened. Letting the adrenaline start to drain.
Paris.
Fucking Paris.
It had been quite the trip so far.
And somehow, I suspected it wasn't over yet.
33
ELLA
For a moment after the shots, I couldn’t hear anything.
Not the rain.
Not my own breathing.
Not Sabine.
It was as if the world had pulled cotton over my ears and wrapped my body in something thick and unreal. My arms were empty for half a second—weightless—before Sabine was suddenly there, pressed into me, small and shaking.
I didn’t remember leaving the room. I didn’t remember moving.
