The morning air outside the Deviloy headquarters was crisp, scented with the faint tang of the city and the exhaust of the high-end transport bus waiting for the interns.
A group of twenty young men and women stood in small clusters, their voices hushed with anticipation. Most were dressed in sensible outdoor gear—khakis, light jackets, and sturdy boots—expecting a rigorous training camp in the mountains.
Near a sleek, obsidian-black car parked a few meters away, Malcolm Ford and Marcus were locked in a low-intensity debate over the Southern Pipeline contracts. Malcolm looked like a statue carved from shadow, dressed in a black tactical jacket and dark denim, his amber eyes scanning the documents on Marcus's tablet with a predatory focus. The suppressants were working, but he could still feel the silver essence humming in his blood, a low-frequency vibration that made the world seem too loud and too bright.
