Zayn stood motionless by the floor-to-ceiling window of his office, the city sprawled beneath him like a living, breathing machine, lights flickering in the distance as the last hints of day faded into night.
The glass and steel fortress around him reflected back his own sharp, unreadable expression, yet inside, a storm raged quietly, like a coiled serpent ready to strike. He pressed his palm against the cold glass, as if grounding himself, as if the city itself could absorb the tension that had taken root in his chest.
The soft click of the door opening broke his thoughts. Samson entered, as always poised, efficient, carrying the weight of professional discretion like armor.
“Is it done?” Zayn asked, his voice controlled, flat, yet carrying a subtle edge that made the air between them
