Twenty Seven Days
He reached down to his utility belt, pulled out a compact, military-grade trauma field dressing, and dropped it into the shallow, wet silt right next to Julian’s good hand.
"My father is currently walking through the fog with no accounts, no asset lines, and a name that is about to become a federal punchline," Xavier said, his voice entirely devoid of emotion. "I am not my father, Thorne. And I don't need to kill a piece of debris to prove I own the floor."
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