The silence following Adrien's scream was the loudest thing Sterling had ever heard. It was the sound of a heart stopping. His own.
He ran.
Anya was at the base of the steps. She wasn't moving. Her head was tilted at an angle that made Sterling's stomach turn.
"Aunt Anya!" Adrien was shrieked again, his small body shaking. He was standing three steps up, his hands gripped so hard on the banister that his knuckles were white. "I didn't mean it! Anya, get up!"
Sterling dropped; he collapsed onto his knees beside her. For a man who lived his life by a code of calculated violence, the sight of her stillness was a different kind of war.
"Anya?"
His voice was low, as he reached out, his hand hovering inches from her shoulder. He was terrified. He knew enough about trauma to know you don't move a fallen body, but the urge to pull her into his chest was a physical ache.
