—In the past—
The doctor's office is a cathedral of silence.
Floor-to-ceiling windows flood the room with pale afternoon light, casting long ribbons of gold across polished marble floors. Dark walnut shelves line the walls, displaying medical journals, awards, and framed certificates collected over a lifetime of excellence.
Silom Stoneheart sits on the leather couch like a man carved from stone.
One elbow rests on the armrest—not relaxed, just... there. Fingers press against the side of his temple in a slow, rhythmic tapping.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
Each beat a thought. A worry. A memory he can't outrun.
His face is calm. Composed. The mask he's worn for so long it's become part of him.
But behind his closed eyes, his thoughts churn like dark water beneath ice.
Chen stands beside him. Hands clasped neatly in front of his body. Spine straight. Eyes forward.
The perfect shadow.
Present, but invisible.
