And Domino — the brother whose face bears such striking resemblance to my missing King—watches with an expression I can't quite interpret, something complex passing behind eyes that should be familiar but aren't, at least not in my fragmented memory.
My eyes land on Hannah and I smile, the expression softening slightly for the one woman who's stood by my side through so much of this twisted journey.
"Hannah, with me please."
She nods, sporting a Leighton uniform like me, my right-hand woman until she can return to her duty at Matteo's side. Her expression betrays nothing, professional mask firmly in place despite the chaos we've just unleashed.
We understand each other, Hannah and I, recognize the necessity of calculated violence in a world that respects nothing less.
I look to the men.
"I have business to attend to. I'll meet you guys later." The dismissal is casual but absolute, my tone allowing no room for argument despite its light delivery.
I don't wait for them to answer, turning away and heading to the stairs, each step seemingly echoing in the silent courtyard that's now haunted by my lost sanity.
The crowd parts before me like water, no one daring to maintain eye contact for more than a second. Fear has a particular scent—acrid and animal—and it permeates the air around me as I walk, each stride purposeful and unhurried.
The wound on my cheek stings, blood tracing a delicate line down to my jaw, but I make no move to wipe it away.
Hannah falls into step beside me, her pace matching mine precisely. She walks with the controlled grace of someone accustomed to navigating dangerous situations, to maintaining composure when others crumble.
I catch the subtle shift in her posture as we leave the Kings behind—the almost imperceptible straightening of her spine, the fractional increase in alertness that acknowledges we are now operating without their physical protection.
We reach the main building's imposing entrance, the heavy oak doors standing open as if in expectation of our arrival.
The cool air inside washes over my heated skin, the sudden temperature change making the cut on my face sting anew. The familiar scent of Leighton surrounds us—old books and polished wood, the subtle undertones of expensive perfumes and colognes worn by those wealthy enough to attend.
Students in the entrance hall freeze as we enter, conversations cutting off mid-sentence.
Their eyes track our progress, some widening in recognition, others narrowing in calculation as they assess what our return might mean for the delicate power dynamics of the university.
News travels fast at Leighton, and our performance in the courtyard will already be spreading through text messages and social media posts, mutating and growing with each retelling.
I head directly for the grand staircase, my target clear in my mind. The marble steps gleam beneath the ornate chandeliers, generations of privilege and tradition made tangible in stone and light.
My footsteps sound different here—sharper, more definitive against the hard surface after the duller impacts of the courtyard stones.
As we climb, Hannah leans closer, her voice pitched low enough that only I can hear.
"You're bleeding."
"It's nothing," I respond, not breaking stride. "Barely a scratch."
"It might scar," she observes, no judgment in her tone, merely stating a fact.
I smile, the expression feeling sharp on my face. "Good. Let it. A reminder of what I'm willing to sacrifice to get him back."
She nods once, understanding perfectly as she always does. This is what makes Hannah invaluable—her ability to accept without question, to adapt without complaint, to see the strategy behind actions others might dismiss as impulsive or emotional.
We reach the second-floor landing, turning automatically toward the administrative wing.
The corridors here are wider, the ceilings higher, the décor more restrained in its display of wealth. This is where the true power of Leighton resides — not in the ostentatious gathering spaces designed to impress donors and parents, but in these sober corridors where decisions affecting generations of students are made without fanfare or oversight.
"We'll need to clean that before we meet with him," Hannah says as we approach our destination, her voice still perfectly calm despite the urgency underpinning our mission. "Blood makes men like him nervous. Reminds them of their mortality."
I laugh, the sound echoing against the oak-paneled walls.
"Perhaps that's exactly what we want—him nervous, off-balance, reminded that his position doesn't make him untouchable."
