Layla was panting hard, her back pressed against the cold wall of the hangar, hands clutching her chest in a feeble attempt to calm her racing heart. The air reeked of gunpowder and blood, a chilling reminder of the shootout they'd just survived. It was overwhelming—the screaming, the bullets, the sight of limp bodies collapsing to the ground. Nothing could have prepared her for this. Not even the pain of her past.
"Are you okay?" Michael's voice broke through the storm of her thoughts. He reached for her trembling hand, lacing his fingers through hers. His touch was warm, grounding. He offered her a gentle squeeze.
"I… I'm fine," Layla said, though her voice betrayed her. "But… I'm disappointed."
Michael was taken aback by the fire suddenly flaring in her honey-gold eyes. Her gaze fixed on the far corner of the hangar with seething animosity.
"We all are," he said gently. "But maybe… it's for the best. After all, seeing your fath—"
