The air inside the Northwood Lodge was beginning to settle into the heavy, expectant hush of late afternoon. Luca Vane moved through the corridors with a calculated, delicate grace, his hand still surreptitiously pressed against the dull ache in his lower abdomen. To any observer, he was merely a fragile intern struggling with the aftermath of a fall; in reality, he was a predator navigating a temporary physical limitation.
He approached the administrative desk near the West Wing, where a stern-faced staff supervisor was filing digital logs.
"Excuse me," Luca murmured, his voice a soft, melodic hum that instantly drew the man's attention. "I'm feeling quite unwell. The fall from the ravine... I think I need to request a sick leave to recover properly in the city."
