Hey, Loves. Me again. Remember the warning about random switches I'm going to be throwing in-between chapters? This is one of these. So bear with me, yeah? Thank you for reading this far!____The Terminator’s POVThe thing about hate is this. It isn't born overnight. It was cultivated. It grew like mold, feeding on damp silence and rotting memory. The Hales had taken everything from me, and when you strip a man down to nothing, you do not destroy him. You forge him. Into something sharper. Into something relentless.Into.......me.I had lived too long in their shadows, learning their steps, memorizing their weaknesses, turning their arrogance into weapons for my hands. They thought themselves untouchable. Ha! As if they were .There was Sinclair with his scar and silly rags to riches story, Ambrose, Sinclair's grandfather dearest, with his pride, the rest with their empire of glass. But glass shatters, no? Doesn't mean it'd happen immediately, but eventually it does. And me? I was al

Sinclair's POVIt was way past working hours, and the office had begun to take on that weird, eerie silence that only hits when everyone’s gone and the lights are half off. I rubbed at my eyes and leaned back in my chair, sighing as I glanced over the spreadsheet still open on my screen.Believe you me, I was the definition of the word tired.Apparently, our team had to pull extra hours thanks to some “urgent” client deliverable that came in at 4:55 PM like chaos itself had hit the send button or something.Most of them had gone home though. Literally almost everybody. The only person I could see in sight was April who was seated across the room, hunched over her desk with that stubborn furrow in her brow. I’d learned early on that it showed up when she was deep in thought, or about to lose it completely. Probably the second one, considering it was almost 11 PM.I grabbed two paper cups from the break room and poured us both some of that bitter, stale office coffee. At this hour, it w

Sinclair’s POVApril stood in the middle of her living room like a war general surveying a battlefield. She had her hands planted on her hips, chin tilted at a stubborn angle, she let her gaze sweep across the disaster zone of unfolded laundry, stacked books, discarded sketches, and coffee mugs that had clearly been sitting there long enough to qualify for archaeological excavation.I, on the other hand, stood with folded arms, waiting for her to say something since she forbade me from sitting inside all this mess.If you asked me what I prepared for the night of project planning then I'd most likely say a laptop, a drink, and maybe a couple arguments here and there. But look what I got instead.“This...” she gestured dramatically at the chaos “...is uninhabitable. We cannot possibly work in here.”I looked around. Messy? Sure. But I’d grown up in worse. My grandma used to be a journalist before she started falling sick on a daily basis. Now, you can imagine the home of a journalist w