Execution.
The fire didn’t kill him. Someone did. My pulse kicks hard, once—sharp, dangerous, but my face doesn’t change. I straighten just as Angelo steps closer.
“Is he—?” Angelo swallows. “Is that Vartan?”
“Yeah,” I say, voice flat. “He’s dead.”
That’s all he needs to know.
Behind us, something moves. A sound—wet, broken.
Angelo spins. “Shit, someone’s alive.”
I turn slower.
A figure barely holding together. Skin blackened, blistered, pulled tight over muscle. His breathing comes in shallow, rattling pulls, like every inhale is a fight he’s losing.
Arsen.
Vartan’s son.
My age.
I recognize the shape of him even through the burns.
Angelo steps forward. “Did we miss one of the girls? Did we—”
“No,” I snap, sharper than I mean to. “It’s not one of them.”
The smoke thickens, rolling low now, hungry. Sirens scream somewhere outside—too close.
Way too close.
I grab Angelo by the shoulder.
“Go.”
He looks at me like he doesn’t want to hear it. Like something in his gut knows this isn’t finished.
“Maks—”
“GO,” I shout, the word tearing out of my chest. “NOW.”
The ceiling groans overhead. A beam cracks.
That’s what finally does it.
Angelo backs away, eyes locked on mine for half a second longer than necessary—then he turns and runs.
Good.
He doesn’t need to know this fire was already a crime scene before we lit the match. That knowledge stays with me. I crouch beside Arsen. He groans again, fingers twitching in the ash.
I could leave him.
Let the fire finish it.
Let fate clean up the mess.
