The cold, sickening thought about my father was violently interrupted by the sharp, deafening sound of a gunshot.
My gaze snapped back to the scene. I looked down and saw one of John's fingers lying on the damp concrete floor. Spacer, the arms expert, had shot John directly on the joint, severing a finger with terrifying, surgical precision.
I went utterly pale. The sight of the blood pooling instantly made my stomach churn, and I fought a desperate battle against nausea. My body felt weak, my limbs heavy on the throne like chair. I genuinely felt like I would faint right then and there. It took every ounce of my willpower not to scream—a sound that I knew would defy Sebastian.
I clenched the wooden arms of the chair so tightly that I could feel my own fingers aching, the pain a tiny, grounding anchor in the chaos.
I tried to escape, cocking my head sharply to the side, determined not to look at the horrors unfolding in the damp hall.
