Silence swallows the room immediately.
Knox steps out of the shower and grabs a towel from the rack, wrapping it loosely around his waist.
“Hello?” he calls.
No answer.
He steps into the bedroom, water dripping down his chest.
“Frank?”
Still nothing.
The house intercom sits beside the bed.
Knox presses the button.
“Hello?”
Static.
He frowns.
“Frank, answer the fucking intercom.”
Nothing comes back.
The silence begins to feel wrong.
Knox walks to the bedroom door and opens it.
The hallway beyond stretches long and dim, lit only by faint emergency lights along the baseboards.
His heartbeat picks up.
“Frank?”
Still nothing.
He moves toward the staircase.
His bare feet make soft sounds on the wood floor.
When he reaches the bottom of the stairs, the smell hits him first.
Knox steps into the foyer.
Two guards lie on the white marble floor. One faces the ceiling, eyes open and empty. A dark hole punctures the center of his forehead. The other sprawls near the door, his throat torn open by a gunshot.
Blood has pooled across the marble, spreading slowly outward in glossy red sheets.
Knox stares at them.
“Oh fuck.”
The words slip out before he can stop them.
He turns and runs.
