That night, the air in Arga’s apartment felt heavy, as if every breath carried a weight too hard to lift. Vania sat on the edge of the sofa, her hands tightly clasped, fingers trembling. Her eyes stared blankly at the window, at the city skyline veiled in a haze of streetlights.

Arga stood not far from her, body tense, still carrying the anger from the previous night’s chase. He watched Vania, who looked fragile, yet there was something sparking in her gaze—a fire beginning to ignite.

“Vania…” Arga’s voice was low but firm. “I know this is hard. But I need you to trust me. We can’t keep running. Devandra...