The BSA headquarters lobby fell silent as Cyrus entered, arms laden with McDonald's bags.
His tailored suit and predatory gaze created a jarring contrast with the cheerful yellow packaging.
Two security agents immediately flanked the entrance, hands moving toward concealed weapons.
Their spirit energy flared in warning—low-level canine spirits, probably German Shepherds based on their disciplined stance.
"Sir, you can't—"
"I'm here for Agent Ashwood." Cyrus's voice carried the unmistakable authority of a black dragon, sending ripples of unease through the assembled agents.
The receptionist's fingers flew across her keyboard, clearly triggering some kind of alert system. Within seconds, hurried footsteps echoed from the elevator.
Commander Qi emerged mid-stride, still clutching a coffee mug that bore the BSA insignia. His golden eyes swept over Cyrus, taking in the expensive suit, the casual confidence, and the ridiculous amount of fast food.
