**KIAN**
I don’t call Jack because I want his opinion.
I call him because he is useful when he is angry, and because nothing sharpens loyalty like the belief that something has been stolen from you.
The door to my office closes with a solid click behind him, and the sound lands heavier than it should, sealing the space in a way that feels deliberate rather than routine. Jack stands where he always does when he is unsure whether he is about to be praised or punished, shoulders squared, jaw tight, eyes already carrying a question he has not asked yet.
“You wanted to see me,” he says.
“I did,” I reply, motioning him toward the chair across from my desk. “Sit.”
He hesitates for half a second, then does, his posture rigid, hands clasped together like he is bracing for impact. I take my ti
