The car wound through the city outskirts, finally pulling up to a sprawling estate that screamed opulence masking menace. It wasn't Austin's real home—that was a fortress buried deeper in secrecy—but a "business" property: a massive house with marble columns, a mechanic's garage humming with activity, and hefty guards patrolling every corner like silent sentinels. James helped Rafael into his wheelchair, maintaining the charade, and they were escorted inside by two burly men who nodded respectfully.
Austin waited in his office, a room lined with dark wood panels and shelves of antique books that hid safes full of secrets. He rose from behind a massive oak desk, his frame as imposing as ever—broad shoulders, a scar tracing his jaw from some long-ago skirmish. "Rafael, my man," he boomed, clasping Rafael's hand firmly. "Wheelchair and all—still pushing back when the world tries to push you down, huh? Smart as ever."
