The sound came first—a cry Marcus had dismissed too many times. But this time, beneath his baby’s sobs, came a voice that shattered him: “Please… don’t hurt us anymore.” He froze at the doorway. His daughter, six years old, shielding her brother on the floor. His wife—her stepmother—standing over them, hand raised. In that instant, Marcus stopped being a grieving husband. He became something else entirely.
The pen hovered over the page, gold catching sterile light. Marcus Johnson’s office sat high above the city—glass walls, silent carpet, the hum of fluorescent bulbs that knew nothing of warmth. He signed another document, then another. The clock hands whispered toward evening. Down below, traffic pulsed like a mechanical heartbeat, a world that moved…
