I inch forward and squint down. When I realize what it is, my heart stops.
It’s a live feed. Grainy security footage, with a timestamp on the bottom, like you’d see in a police procedural. It shows a concrete interrogation room with two metal chairs on either side of a matching metal table. Overly bright fluorescent lighting tints everything a sickly yellow-green.
Sitting in one of those chairs, motionless as a statue, is Lukas.
His hands rest on his thighs, palms down, fingers splayed. His silver rings glint in the ugly light. His face is hard and cold.
“I can get him out,” Kir says.
I tear my gaze away from the screen. “What?”
“I said, I can get him out.” Kir pockets the phone, and Lukas disappears from view. “I have ways to make problems like this disappear.”
“Then do it! What ar
