Page 142 of Buried in Blood

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Vodka. Neat. Just like my explosions.

“Poetry,” I whisper, watching the flames dance in real time. “Fucking art.”

The driver says nothing. He knows better. Just keeps the engine running while I watch my masterpiece unfold from three angles: aerial drone, street cam, hacked cell tower. I see Lucien dragging bodies. I saw Evelyn screaming. I saw Astra clutching her chest like this was a tragedy and not a sacrament.

They don’t even realize yet—

They’re mine.

They’ve always been mine.

All of them are justplayingrebellion.

But me?

I create.

I destroy.

Iconsecratethe world in flame and make it better.

The screen cuts to Lucien speaking with the police. He points at the rubble. Then at the horizon.

Then—

My name leaves his mouth.

I watch it on his lips.

Iseethe betrayal.

And I laugh.

Loud. Unhinged. Head thrown back like I’ve just heard the punchline to God’s own joke.

“Oh, Lucien,” I murmur. “You finally found your balls.”

I tap a button on the panel and switch to another feed—this one grainier, but still good. Surveillance from inside the rec room before the blast. My cameras. My angles. My domain.

I scrub backward.

Pause.

There.

Her.

Harmony, standing beneath the arbor. Her hands are trembling as she reaches for the floral panel. Her lips moving—mouthingplease let this worklike some stupid prayer.

She planted the bombs.

But then she warned them.

I watch it again.

She slips out the side entrance. Finds Dante. Leans in, whispering. Pointing.

Treachery.

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