His own apartment was a sanctuary of controlled order, a stark contrast to the chaotic, pulsing energy of the world he was beginning to conquer. It was tidy in the precise, almost surgical way of a man who understood that a disordered environment was the precursor to a disordered mind.
Every object had its place; every shadow seemed to respect the geometry of the room.
He showered with a cold, efficient intensity, washing away the lingering scent of her, the soft, floral notes of her shampoo, and the electric warmth of her skin before changing into clean, dark clothes. He sat at the heavy desk in his east-facing bedroom, the afternoon light just beginning to bleed through the blinds, and set his phone aside.
He didn't need the handheld interface today. He needed the raw, unfiltered connection.
With a mental flick, he called it forth.
