The sun had finally disappeared behind the mountains, leaving the mansion steeped in deep, suffocating darkness. Every hallway, every shadowed corner seemed to thrum with unease. The brothers had spent hours scouring every possible lead, tapping into every resource, every network, every contact—but Kat had vanished without a trace.
V stood at the edge of the war room's window, fists clenched on the sill. His chest rising and falling with the weight of the day's battles—both physical and internal. He hadn't slept, hadn't eaten.
Then, as soon as the last thread of sunlight vanished, he moved. Without hesitation, he vaulted from the window. The glass shattered behind him, sparkling in the moonlight for the briefest instant before vanishing into the night.
The others in the mansion froze. No one followed. They knew better. Chasing him now would be useless—dangerous. V had been untouchable all day, and his focus was singular, obsessive.
By the time anyone dared to look around the room again, bruises and scuffed knuckles marked every brother. Each of them bore the evidence of V's fury, his desperate need to find what was his. Wrath's jaw was tight, Phury's hands still tingled from the struggle, Butch's eyes were dark with worry—but all of it paled compared to the silent, consuming storm that was V on the hunt.
The mansion felt empty. Hollow. Waiting. And in the darkness beyond its walls, V moved like a shadow, guided by nothing but instinct, rage, and the scent of the girl who had claimed more of his thoughts than he could admit.
Every step, every heartbeat, every breath carried the weight of a predator unchained—and Kat had no idea just how close that predator had come, or how far he would go to find her.
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Kat's eyes fluttered open to dim, harsh light bouncing off the metal bars of her cage. Her wrists ached where the restraints bit into her skin, and her back protested against the cold, unyielding floor. The first thing she registered was the smell—sterile, metallic, faintly acrid, with an undercurrent of baby-powdered people. Great. Just great.
She flexed her fingers experimentally, testing the straps. Tight, unforgiving. She was trapped.
A grin, crooked and mischievous, tugged at the corner of her mouth. "Well, isn't this cozy," she muttered to herself, voice dry. "Welcome to Kat's personal panic room, compliments of Mr. X and his ghostly crew."
She pushed herself upright, scanning the space. Sparse. Dim. Minimal furnishings. Enough room to stand, but not enough to make any real moves. The lessers—Mr. X's men—were scattered around the perimeter, pacing, whispering, occasionally glancing at her with suspicion.
Kat's mind kicked into overdrive. They were careful, organized, but predictable. Overconfident, reliant on numbers, and lazy with details.
She squinted at the nearest one, noting the position of his weapons, the angles of the weak points in their formation. Another had a habit of clenching his jaw when anxious. The one at the far end shifted weight constantly, always keeping his back to her—rookie mistake.
Kat's smirk widened. "Oh, this is gonna be fun," she whispered under her breath. "You think you've got me? Sweetheart, I'm about to turn your entire operation into a highlight reel of incompetence."
She tugged at her restraints experimentally, grimacing. Not enough give. Not yet. But patience was part of her plan. Patience, observation, and a little chaos.
Her voice carried through the space, clear and sharp. "You boys really need to rethink your fashion choices. That soccer dad uniform with the baby-powder scent? Not intimidating. Not even close."
