Stale darkness smothered the private villa; not the faintest shard of light dared intrude.

In the gloom, Nicholas slumped against a bare wall, half-buried in an ocean of empty liquor bottles. Sleep tugged at him like an undertow, yet he clung to consciousness out of sheer habit.

A sudden scrape of hinges shattered the hush. The heavy door swung inward, admitting a narrow blade of daylight

Nicholas flinched and threw up an arm, shielding bloodshot eyes until they adjusted.

When the blur settled, he saw a man backlit by brilliance-polished dress shoes clicking forward with deliberate menace.

Nathaniel stepped fully inside, flipped on the overhead light, and surveyed the wreckage with a muted sigh. Nicholas lay at the epicenter-bearded, unwashed, every inch of him broadcasting defeat.

Nathaniel’s brow creased as he picked his way through the glass like a man crossing a battlefield.