Alina’s POV

The walls in the safe house were thin. Not literally—I knew they were reinforced, concrete hidden behind drywall, the kind of construction that kept bullets out. But sound slipped through. Whispers of voices. The scrape of a chair against the floor. The muffled rhythm of someone’s pacing.

And laughter.

Adrian’s laughter.

It bled into the corners of the room like smoke. Even chained, even broken, he made the air feel toxic. Every chuckle crawled down my spine and burrowed into my chest until I couldn’t tell if it was echoing outside the walls or inside my head.

Barry had his fists buried in the cushions, knuckles white, like...