Selene didn't knock. Two fingers, a look, and the latch drifted open like it was trying to earn praise.
The office was nothing like the rest of Central. High windows spilling daylight over shelves that actually had spines cracked by hands, not decorators. A desk with knife scars. A kettle breathing slow steam beside a plate of unopened letters.
Maps lined one wall—Arcadia, its districts, red pins marking gates that looked more like wounds.
Behind the desk sat the kind of man the city didn't make anymore.
Silver hair, not white. Weathered skin, not tired. Shoulders still built for armor. A presence that made the room remember manners. You didn't feel heat from him; you felt gravity. The air near him had opinions about posture.
"Mr. Cross," he said. His voice was oak and low thunder. "Tea?"
I blinked. "Is that a test?"
"It's tea," he said, pouring. "Tests come later."
