Jack yanked at his tie for the second time, as if even silk had turned into a noose around his throat. He slumped back into the sofa, one arm flung across the cushion, the other pressed hard against his forehead, fingers digging in like he could hold back the pounding inside his skull. His foot tapped restlessly against the floor, each strike uneven, impatient.
Across the room, Cain shuffled through files with deliberate calm, the scrape of paper loud in the thick silence. He didn't look up, but the way his jaw flexed betrayed that he felt the storm brewing in Jack's corner.
The knock came sharp and unexpected, a brisk rap that made both men look up.
"Come in," Cain called, his voice carrying that clipped firmness he used when he didn't want to be interrupted but had no choice.
