The conference room was empty when Dayo arrived, the morning light filtering through floor-to-ceiling windows with a softness that suggested the day had not yet decided what it wanted to become. He moved through the space with deliberate precision, his footsteps silent against the polished floor, his posture settling into the chair at the head of the table with the gravity of a man preparing for theater rather than business. He placed his hands flat against the mahogany surface, fingers spread wide, feeling the cool wood against his palms as if grounding himself in something solid.
He did not look at his phone. Did not review documents. Did not engage in any of the nervous rituals that preceded ordinary meetings. He simply sat, his spine rigid, his gaze fixed on a point somewhere beyond the window, and let his breathing slow until it matched the rhythm of his heartbeat, until his body became a vessel for something that was not quite himself.
