The storm had passed, but the world hadn’t caught up yet.

The horizon was washed in shades of gray, the sea rolling with lazy indifference as if it hadn’t just witnessed the death of something unnatural. Violet stood at the water’s edge, her boots sinking into the wet sand, her reflection trembling in the thin layer of tide that crept forward, then retreated again.

Behind her, the old Corsican safehouse loomed in silence. Smoke drifted faintly from its collapsed chimney, mingling with the mist. The dawn had a strange kind of beauty soft, fragile, deceptive. Like peace borrowed, not earned.

Bryan watched her from a few steps away, his jacket...