For the third night in a row, Damian does not sleep.
I wake before dawn to find the desk lamp still on, its soft yellow glow painting long shadows across the penthouse office. Damian stands by the wall of monitors, one hand braced against the glass, staring at a map with more intensity than should ever belong to a human body. His other hand holds a cup of coffee that has gone cold hours ago.
There is something frightening about the stillness of his posture. Like he has fused with the problem. Like the search for Adrian has replaced oxygen in his lungs.
He does not look up when I enter. He does not even notice the sound of my footsteps. His jaw is clenched, shadowed with stubble. His shoulders are tense beneath the fabric of his shirt. There is a hollow look in his eyes that makes my sto
