Flashback — The Lunch Between Moon and Angel
Angel sits across from Moon, his hands twisted together in his lap, fingers winding and unwinding in a rhythm of quiet distress.
His eyes dart to the man before him, then away, then down at the food he cannot bring himself to touch. The steam rises from the pasta in lazy spirals, carrying the scent of garlic and herbs, but his stomach is a knot he cannot untie.
He doesn't understand why Moon Arden—the Moon Arden who commands rooms with his presence—would ask him to lunch.
Alone. In a private room. With no cameras, no witnesses, no reason.
Moon leans back in his chair, his posture the picture of relaxed confidence. One arm draped over the armrest, the other resting on the table, his fingers inches from his water glass.
His blue eyes are fixed on Angel with an intensity that seems almost lazy, almost indifferent—but nothing about Moon Arden is ever truly indifferent.
