Victor sat at the table, posture composed, but the stillness was a mask. Beneath the surface, his fingers twitched against his knee, a restless rhythm betraying the storm inside.
Across from him, she leaned back in her chair, her sharp gaze slicing into him with every glance. To her, he was both a stranger and a ghost. And she refused to let him see how much the resemblance unsettled her.
Abel lingered in the corner, jaw tight, one hand near his weapon as though unsure if he was guarding his boss… or preparing for the possibility that this night would end in blood.
The door creaked open.
A tall figure stepped inside, silver hair glinting under the light. Dr. Henrick carried himself with the calm precision of a man who had seen too much blood in his life and had grown indifferent to it.
"Good evening," Henrick said simply, his voice clinical. "I'll need silence and cooperation."
