The patriarch lurched over the mahogany desk, desperately trying to grab the weapon. His eyes were wide with genuine, unscripted terror.
He saw his own terrified reflection in his son's dead, unwavering eyes. The heavy muzzle pressed deep into Cruxius's skin. He didn't even blink as his finger squeezed the trigger.
BANG!
SCRRCHH—
"Wh-what did you just say?"
The confused, soft voice belonged to Lira. She lurched forward in her seat, startled by Cruxius's sudden, highly unconventional demand.
He was seated on the plush sofa, his dark eyes blinking away the jarring, hollow memory of his past regression before seamlessly composing himself in the present.
"I said, use that needle to draw my blood."
Cruxius cast a lazy side glance toward an open, velvet-lined suitcase. Resting inside was an archaic, thick metal syringe.
