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Marcus woke up on the floor of his shop with blood on his palms and a sound in his ears that wouldn't stop.
Not ringing. Ringing would've been fine. This was a low hum that felt like it was coming from inside his teeth.
He pushed himself up. His hands left red prints on the floorboards.
The lyre sat on the workbench exactly where he'd left it. Seven strings. Perfect tension. The wood gleamed under the single overhead bulb like it had been polished by someone who gave a damn, which Marcus absolutely had not done because he'd spent the last six hours trying to finish before midnight and he didn't polish, he restored.
The client was gone.
Marcus turned. The front door was still locked. Deadbolt in place. The chain he'd added after the last break-in hung exactly where it should. No one had come in. No one had left.