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When the nightmares rose, they stood no chance. The moment the pain rose, Rodin dragged up the image of the torn and mutilated flesh. He brought with it the strength of the woman. And the nightmares retreated, unable to compete with such a reality.
Yet when he awoke, he was not refreshed. He ran through his morning routine—hard exercise, a shower, then checking his tools before dressing. He left his room and headed for a cafe, ready for a bite to eat. But he felt drained.
The coffee revived him to an extent, and the food filled the hole in his stomach. But not the one he felt elsewhere.
Work would help. He needed to concentrate on his work.
He ran through what he knew, looking for the connections. There was something wrong about the old man and his contracts. Mallos was mor
