"What twisted game?" I challenged, leaning forward. "You’re talking in riddles, Lucas. If you’ve got something to say, just say it."
He exhaled heavily, his gaze flicking toward the window as if gauging who might be listening. Then, he pulled out a crumpled envelope from his jacket and slid it across the table.
"This," he said simply.
My hand hovered over it for a second, my pulse quickening. The envelope was thick, its contents lumpy and disorganized. Something about it felt ominous, like Pandora’s box waiting to unleash chaos.
"Go on," Lucas urged. "Open it."
Against my better judgment, I did. Photographs spilled out onto the table—grainy, candid shots of Nathaniel in the kind of places he had no business being. Dark alleys, dingy warehouses, shadowy figures exchanging something in the background.
"What the hell is this?" I breathed, unable to tear my eyes away.
Lucas tapped one of the photos with a calloused finger. "That’s him at a Blackthorn drop. Do you know what that means?"