Malcolm's lips trembled, his fingers twitching against the plastic armrest as the weight of his mother's judgment suffocated his remaining pride. The terror of public exposure—of having his identity shattered into dust by a single digital message—broke something deep within his S-tier baseline. He couldn't look at Luca. He couldn't face those burning silver eyes that had just chosen him.
"Go with him, Vane," Malcolm muttered, his voice dropping into a flat, dead, and utterly hollow rasp that didn't sound like the King of Deviloy at all. He forced his gaze down toward the floorboards, his shoulders collapsing inward under his bespoke suit jacket. "Go with Holino. My brother... my brother is right. You should go with him tonight. Just leave the hall."
