The Silvercrest Orphanage stood on a hill overlooking the city, a sprawling estate of ivy-covered brick and manicured gardens that had been designed, fifty years ago, to look like hope. The annual charity breakfast was already in full swing by the time Ethan's convoy pulled through the iron gates. White tents dotted the lawns. Waiters in crisp uniforms carried trays of champagne and canapés. Dignitaries, politicians, and the city's wealthiest philanthropists mingled on the terrace, their laughter drifting through the autumn air like music. Yuki pressed her face to the window of the limousine, her eyes wide. "There are so many people," she murmured. "So many... important people." "You're important too," Trevor said, sitting beside her. He had been hyper-aware of her proximity since the bedroom incident, but he was determined to play the doting guardian today. No blushing or awkwardness. Just steady, reliable Trevor. "You're here as Ethan's guest. That makes you as important as anyone

Three minutes earlier. Yuki watched Trevor disappear around the corner of the greenhouse, his phone still clutched in his hand, his expression troubled. She wanted to follow him, but something about the way he'd spoken, and the tension in his voice, the careful way he'd told her to stay put, made her uneasy. But he had asked her to stay with the children. And, plus she had promised. She turned back to the courtyard, where the children were still playing with the origami cranes she'd folded. A little girl with pigtails and a gap-toothed smile was attempting to make one herself, her small fingers struggling with the delicate folds. Yuki knelt beside her. "Like this," she said softly, guiding the child's hands. "Gentle. The paper needs gentle hands." "Like a butterfly," the girl said. "Yes. Like a butterfly." It was a peaceful moment. The kind of moment Yuki had never known before waking up in Trevor's apartment. The children's laughter and the simple joy of folding paper into bird

The echo of the gunshot was still rolling across the orphanage grounds when Trevor and Ken burst through the service entrance at the back of the building. "There!" Ken pointed. A figure was sprinting across the delivery courtyard, a large man in dark clothes, a medical mask still obscuring his face. He moved with the desperate, uncoordinated speed of someone who knew that stopping meant dying. Behind him, the service door swung on its hinges. Ahead of him, a delivery truck was parked near the loading bay, its engine idling. "He's heading for the truck!" Trevor shouted. "If he gets behind the wheel..." "He won't." Ken was already moving. "Come on!" They raced across the courtyard. The masked man glanced back once, his eyes wide with panic above the surgical mask, and with that he put on a burst of speed. He reached the truck and wrenched open the driver's door, scrambling into the cab. Trevor lunged. His fingers caught the door frame just as the engine roared. The truck lurched f

The limousine pulled through the Silvercrest Manor gates in silence. The grand estate, usually a symbol of safety and power, loomed against the night sky like a mausoleum. Trevor stepped out first, his hand instinctively reaching back to help Yuki. She took it, her fingers cold and trembling. Amelia followed, her face pale, her eyes distant. They walked through the grand foyer without speaking. The marble floors echoed their footsteps. The portraits of dead Silvercrests stared down at them with painted eyes that seemed to judge. A servant offered to take their coats. No one responded. It was Yuki who broke first. "I need to... I need to lie down," she whispered. Her voice was hollow. "My head. Where the mask man...where the man pushed me. It still hurts." "I'll take you to your room," Trevor said. "No. Please. I want to be alone. Just for a little while." She looked at him, and her dark eyes were filled with something that hadn't been there before, not fear, but a kind of exhauste

The abandoned warehouse on the edge of the industrial district had once been a Silvercrest shipping hub. Now it was a shell of rusted beams and broken windows, the perfect place to conduct business that couldn't be conducted anywhere else. A single floodlight illuminated the center of the concrete floor, casting long shadows that twisted like wraiths against the walls. Jason Nova hung from chains bolted to the ceiling, his wrists raw and bleeding, his feet barely touching the ground. His designer clothes, what remained of them, were torn and stained. His face was a ruin of bruises and dried blood. The heir to a fifty-five-billion-dollar media empire now looked like something that had been dragged out of a gutter. Donald circled him slowly, his footsteps echoing in the cavernous space. "Let's begin again, Mr. Nova. You were employed at the Silvercrest Orphanage under the supervision of Mrs. Yonna. You assisted her in the abuse of children. You were present when she attempted to sell