LYRA
Zeviar's penthouse in the packhouse was a world away from the sterile medical wing. The instant he opened the door, the air shifted. Gone was the antiseptic smell and the hum of fluorescent lights, replaced by warm light, clean space, and a profound stillness. It felt like a place meticulously crafted for one person's idea of perfect rest. Dark wood floors gleamed, floor-to-ceiling windows offered a sweeping view of the packhouse grounds, and the furniture was a masterful blend of luxury and comfort, clearly meant to be lived in, not just admired. I stepped inside, momentarily captivated, just standing there.
"Feeling better?" Zeviar's voice came from behind me.
"Considerably," I replied.
He moved to the kitchen, an open-plan, modern space that seemed utterly at odds with the pack
