ADAM

The field smelled of iron. Of wet earth, blood, and a kind of silence that was too aware of itself—the kind that comes after something monstrous has happened, and everyone's still pretending they didn't want to see it.

She stood there in the middle of the field smiling. Her hair was matted with blood, her skin shining under the half-light of dusk, her hands still holding those two heads like trophies. "Is this proof enough?"

The crowd gasped; others muttered prayers. But she didn't flinch, didn't blink. Her eyes found me again—steady, proud, and almost mocking—as if she was daring me to deny what had just happened.

Who was...