My father.
He’s slumped in his chair behind the desk, his body angled unnaturally, one arm hanging loose at his side. Blood spills from his head, thick and dark, staining the collar of his shirt, dripping slowly onto the polished wood beneath him.
His mouth is slightly open.
His eyes—closed.
For a second, my mind refuses to understand what I’m looking at.
No.
No.
A sound builds in my throat—sharp, broken—but I force it down before it can escape. My fingers curl at my sides, nails biting into my palms hard enough to ground me.
This is not how he dies.
Not like this.
Not in his own chair.
Not—
Movement.
My gaze snaps up.
And everything inside me goes cold.
Anton.
He stands over my father’s body like this is nothing. Like this is routine. A gun hangs loosely in his hand, his posture relaxed, his expression calm in a way that feels…wrong.
Too calm.
Too certain.
For a moment, my mind cannot make sense of it.
My cousin.
My blood.
Standing in my father’s office—over his body.
No shock. No hesitation. No remorse.
Just calculation.
The betrayal doesn’t feel real.
It feels like something my mind is trying—and failing—to understand.
Anton doesn’t see me.
Or maybe he doesn’t bother to look.
Instead, he steps closer to the desk, his gaze fixed on my father like he’s studying something already finished.
