Across town, the alarm on Julian’s ankle monitor was a high-pitched shriek. The two guards stationed at his door stepped inside, hands on their holsters.

"Mr. Vane, step away from the window," one commanded.

Julian didn't look at them. He was looking at his phone—a live feed from a hidden tracker he’d placed in Elara’s locket. It was stationary. In the old theater district. And the heat sensor on his security hub was spiking.

"She’s in there," Julian whispered.

"Sir, if you cross that threshold, your bail is revoked. You’ll be in a maximum-security cell by midnight. No trial, no appeals."

Julian turned to the guards. His face wasn't that of a billionaire or a defendant. It was the face of a man who had already lost everything once and was prepared to burn the world to prevent it from happening again.

"Then call the warden," Julian said, his voice terrifyingly calm. "Tell him I’m coming for her."

He didn't wait. He charged. He took the first guard down with a shoulder-check that reopened his own wound, grabbed the keys, and vanished into the night. He drove like a man with nothing left to lose, the police sirens already beginning to wail behind him.