The three of them left the penthouse into the shared hall—carpet swallowing footfalls.
Don set the pace. Winter followed a few steps back, Trixie bundled in her arms.
They stopped outside Charles's door. Don glanced over his shoulder. "I'll find you in the car park."
Winter dipped her chin once. Trixie tensed, little body loading up for a jailbreak. Before she could spring, Winter's hand moved—no grab, no squeeze—just one smooth stroke along the spine that read as affection and function both.
The cat sagged, thwarted, and let out a muted grrrowthat was ninety percent sulk.
Don faced the panel. A soft sweep of blue light washed him from boots to brow. brrrp~
"Identity confirmed," a familiar male digital voice said, polite as ever. "Welcome, Mr. Bright. Master Charles is expecting you."
The door parted. shhhk~
The broadcast spilled out first—Tier Gray graphics looping, a clipped voice recapping timelines. Don stepped into the living area.
