I saw Richard's jaw flex — that tiny, dangerous twitch of a man who wanted to react but couldn't afford to. He didn't answer, only looked at Damon.
Martin, efficient as ever, hauled Damon to his feet. The man struggled briefly, but there was no fight left in him — just the hollow shell of his anger. Blue and red lights danced across the marble facade of the building as the police arrived, sirens slicing through the tension.
Everything unfolded in strange, slowed fragments: the metallic click of handcuffs, the crackle of radios, the police officer's monotone voice reciting rights Damon didn't care to hear.
I stood still, my body starting to tremble as the adrenaline wore off. Richard's hand found mine — warm, strong, trembling just slightly — and squeezed. He didn't look at me at first; his eyes followed Damon being led away.
