The security garage beneath the old apartment complex carried the quiet loneliness of places built for machines rather than people, its concrete walls cold beneath flickering midnight lights while distant winter wind slipped through the half-open entrance with a mournful sound that echoed softly through the empty structure like grief refusing to rest.
Outside, snow had begun falling again.
Slow.
Heavy.
Relentless against the sleeping city.
And the moment that icy wind touched her skin, Rhea Volkov felt the memory return immediately.
The farmhouse.
The blood.
The storm that nearly buried them alive years ago.
Rhea stood beside the black SUV near the far corner of the garage with one hand resting against the hood while exhaustion settled heavily through her posture, though she hid it well beneath the calm discipline she had carried for most of her life.
Most people feared silence.
Rhea preferred it.
Because silence hid weakness better than words ever could.
But tonight—
