The room was dim, lit only by a single flickering bulb that cast long, shifting shadows across the cracked walls. Xalia stood over the man slumped in the chair, her gloved hand idly trailing along the edge of a wickedly sharp blade. His muffled groans filled the air, barely audible through the blood pooling in his broken mouth. She tilted her head, studying him with the detached curiosity of a scientist dissecting a failed experiment.

This was routine—messy, but necessary. She pressed the blade against his throat, her voice cold and steady.

The sound of footsteps approaching from the corridor broke her focus. She didn’t need to turn to know it was her husband. His familiar presence pricked at her nerves before he even spoke. When he leaned casually against the doorway, his smirk practically audible, she finally glanced up.

Her expression didn’t waver, though the faintest frown touched her lips.