No Trace Left Behind

Ryan's breath caught as Cynthia crossed the last few feet toward him, something cold and final settling into her expression the kind of look that suggested whatever composure she'd been holding onto all evening had finally run out.

He braced for whatever came next, eyes squeezed shut, every muscle locked tight against the chair binding him in place.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, past the fear, a small, bitter voice kept asking how it had come to this bound in the dark, waiting on someone else's mercy, after everything he'd promised he'd become.

It never landed.

Instead, a sound tore out of her that didn't belong to threats or fury something raw, sudden, cut off almost as soon as it started.

Ryan's eyes snapped open.

Blood bloomed across the front of Cynthia's blouse, spreading fast, dark against the fabric.