Cracks Beneath the Surface
"I hired a lawyer. We negotiated a reduced sentence."
Hope flickered in Bear's eyes, raw and desperate, like a drowning man catching sight of driftwood.
"And the bad news?" he asked, voice already trembling.
Evan's expression did not change. Calm. Measured. Almost indifferent.
"Even with the reduced sentence… you'll still have about twenty years left."
Silence followed.
Not the ordinary kind.
The kind that presses against your ears and makes your heartbeat sound too loud.
Twenty years.
Bear's legs gave out. His fingers slipped from the edge of the metal table, and he nearly fell off the chair. The guard behind him steadied him roughly, but his face had already drained of color.
Twenty years?
He—the eighth war general of the Obsidian Wing organization—was going to rot in a place like this for twenty years?
