Dylan’s p.o.v.
The room had a strange warmth, almost too welcoming. The golden light spilling from the crystalline chandeliers gave everything a glow too perfect, and yet I couldn’t relax. Every instinct I had screamed for vigilance.
When the waiter appeared, I noted his unnaturally smooth demeanor—the kind of calm that came from knowing more than you let on. As he took our orders, he didn’t rush, but he barely acknowledged what we were saying.
“I’ll have water,” I said flatly, my eyes narrowing as I gauged his every move.
The man nodded with a polite smile, yet it felt rehearsed. His eyes flitted over the room almost lazily, taking in the same details as I was, glancing over a group of strangers in a world that didn’t seem to care about us.
As our food arrived, the smell was comforti
