Layleen
Sheryl is good. Too good.
I used to think her flirtatious smiles and cutesy giggles around men were just part of who she was—effortless, natural. But now, watching her performance up close, I finally understand.
It's always an act.
She does whatever it takes to survive. Just like I used to.
"He's dead."
Jack's voice drops, thick with something I didn't expect—genuine grief. The raw emotion in his tone catches me off guard. I never thought rogues could feel anything but loyalty born from fear, yet there's real sorrow in his eyes.
His beady gaze snaps to Sheryl, who has already shuffled over to my side, her entire body trembling like a leaf clinging to a dead branch. She stares blankly ahead, blinking rapidly, but I notice the way her eyes subtly dart around—searching for something. Or someone.
"You did that?!" Jack snarls, and before either of us can react, he lunges.
His thick fingers clamp around Sheryl's throat, squeezing tight.
