Zayne’s POV
The room smells like antiseptic and old money—polished wood, leather chairs that cost more than the average house, and something metallic beneath it all. Blood, maybe. Or the echo of it.
Rico stepped out a few minutes ago. Said he needed air. He didn’t wait for my answer.
I didn’t stop him.
My arm throbs in a slow, deliberate rhythm, like it’s reminding me it exists. Like pain is trying to pull focus. I don’t let it. Pain is loud only when you listen to it.
I lean back against the bed, eyes on the far wall, and replayed the corridor.
Not the sound of the gunshot. Not the way bodies scattered. Not Isla’s face.
The angles. The spacing. The timing. The shooter wasn’t improvising.
That truth settles cleanly in my chest, sharp and undeniable.
The corridor wasn’t public—not
