Alexander sat at the far end of the long table, wrists cuffed in sleek grav-binders that glowed faintly blue, a mockery of comfort disguised as restraint. He looked like a man who hadn't slept in days—hair disheveled, eyes hollow but burning with pride that refused to die. The "VIP" treatment was still obvious, though: no rags, no filth. A pressed suit, a cushioned chair, even a glass of water waiting at his elbow.
When their eyes met, the tension hit like a fist.
"Xavier," Alexander muttered, his voice dry, venom-laced. He leaned forward slightly, chains humming as they tightened against the motion. "This is our first time meeting face to face even though we already have a history. What a world we live in."
