The silence in Director Pierce's office was a living thing, coiling tighter with every tick of the antique clock on the wall. Devon's ultimatum had landed like a grenade, its fuse burned down to nothing, and now the explosion rippled through the room.
Pierce, who had been the picture of composed authority moments ago, reacted as if struck by lightning. The hairs on his arms visibly prickled beneath his starched shirt sleeves, standing erect like soldiers at attention. He bolted to his feet so abruptly that his leather chair skidded back with a sharp scrape against the hardwood floor, his face paling to the color of fresh gauze.
Beads of sweat erupted across his forehead in an instant cascade, glistening under the office's warm lamplight, and his hands usually steady trembled as he gripped the edge of his desk for support. His voice, when it emerged, was a stuttering wreck, the smooth baritone fracturing into hesitant fragments.
