The photo on the screen didn’t lie.

Same face. Same jaw. Same damn eyes.

But twisted.

Noa stared, heart hammering like a warning bell. The man in the picture had blood on his shirt and rusted chains around his wrists. His head was tilted like he was listening to something only he could hear. Like the silence was talking back. Like madness had found a home in him.

Alessio leaned in. “Is that”

“My brother,” Noa said, voice low. “That’s him.”

The car jerked over a pothole. Rook ...