As the footsteps draw closer, I start recognizing the energy.
My heart, which seconds ago felt like it was about to explode from the absurd pressure Dean was emitting, slows just enough for another problem to take the place of the first one.
Because that presence is unmistakable to me.
The slow, deliberate cadence of the steps. The faint metallic rings of his boots clinking against leather. The trace of cold OXI he can't ever fully suppress, no matter how polished his bureaucratic mask becomes.
And one certainty sprouts in my head like a weed between cracks in concrete: if it's really him, then this situation has just become much, much worse.
The silhouette emerges slowly from behind the curve of the gigantic telescope.
'The bastard is still farming aura as he walks.'
No hurry.
No concern whatsoever for the fact that I almost died five seconds ago.
