The following hours brought no answers.
They brought exhaustion.
The night progressed slowly, as if it had all the time in the world to linger in that room, enveloping each of them in a silent wait that no longer had the urgency of the beginning—but also no relief. The soft lighting of the mansion remained constant, almost unchanging, contrasting with the weariness that slowly accumulated in their bodies and expressions.
Time ceased to be measured in minutes.
It began to be measured in breaths.
By the frequency with which someone looked at Damon, hoping to see something different.
And by the absolute absence of change.
