The kitchen of the house was completely still, bathed in the faint, cool gray light of the early morning before the sun could rise over the city skyline. The only sound in the massive, modern space was the soft, rhythmic sizzle of a pan on the glass stove.
Dahmer Lukas stood by the kitchen island, his tall, lean frame dressed in a simple, loose-fitting dark shirt. His face mask was gone, leaving his true face exposed to the quiet room—pale, sharp, and perfectly smooth. He was moving with a slow, deliberate care, completely focused on the breakfast he was preparing for Malcolm, who was still asleep in the master bedroom down the hall.
The heavy glass door of the private elevator chimed softly, sliding open with a quiet hiss. Kaelan stepped out onto the polished floor, holding a digital tablet under his arm. He stopped when he saw his boss standing in front of the stove, holding a spatula.
