The heavy wood door clicked shut behind Caleb.
For a few seconds, the hallway outside the sponsor rooms still smelled like polish, perfume, and money pretending it had never touched blood. Laughter leaked through the walls. Glasses clicked. Someone congratulated someone else on a quarterly partnership like people had not died under the arena yesterday.
Caleb adjusted the collar of the dress jacket and regretted it. The stiff seam scraped over the raised purple spirals under his shirt, dragging a dull ache across his left side.
The thing behind his sternum pulsed once, slow and hungry. It wanted fuel for the torn muscle along his collarbone. It wanted rest, too, if wanting rest was something meat could do.
Caleb gave it neither.
A man in a charcoal suit stepped into his path with a digital clipboard held like a shield. A blue earpiece curled along his jaw.
"Mr. Mercer. The VeilWard representatives require-"
Caleb walked around him.
