Marco’s still muttering under his breath about us being “too much," when footsteps approach the room.
Two of the new men step in.
One of them walks in first—taller, broader, with messy dark hair that falls slightly over his forehead. There’s something rougher about him. Not unkempt—just not as polished. His eyes move quickly, sharp, taking in the room in pieces before landing here.
On me.
On Alex behind me.
And they stay there a second too long.
The second man follows a step behind.
Completely different.
His hair is lighter—dark blond, neatly kept. Everything about him is composed. Clean. Measured. His posture alone feels like control. His gaze passes over us too—but it doesn’t linger.
Marco notices them immediately.
“There you are,” he says, straightening slightly. “Zane. Roman.
