Chapter 3 - The Warmth in the Dark
The turning point came on a freezing, moonless night in the dead of winter. The wind howled against the reinforced glass windows of my master bedroom, carrying a bitter chill that even the estate's advanced climate control struggled to conquer. I had been awake for hours, wrestling with the dark memories of the sniper's bullet and the crushing isolation of my new reality. Around three in the morning, a wave of profound exhaustion finally pulled me toward sleep. But then, I woke suddenly, jolted by an unfamiliar sensation. I felt warmth against my side. Someone was lying right beside me in my massive, empty bed. My instinctual hand moved instantly toward the loaded weapon hidden beneath my pillow, my fingers wrapping around the cold steel before I forced myself to look down—and froze completely. It wasn't an assassin, an enemy operative, or a spy. It was Emma. She had apparently collapsed from sheer, bone-crushing exhaustion while cleaning the adjoining study, wandered into my room half-asleep, and crawled unconsciously into the warmth of the bed, curling up like a freezing child. Her breathing was shallow, her face pale, and dark circles stained her skin. For several long, agonizing seconds, I stared down at her sleeping form, my finger resting on the trigger of my gun. In my world, weakness was a death sentence, and intruders were eliminated without hesitation. Yet, looking at her chemical-burned hands and the way she shivered slightly in her sleep, the cold armor around my heart cracked. I slowly pulled my hand away from the weapon. I didn't wake her up. Instead, with a strange, unfamiliar ache in my chest, I pulled the heavy cashmere blanket up over her shoulders, shielding her from the biting draft. For the first time in two years, the tomb felt slightly less freezing.
