Chapter 113
Maison de la Croix this faithful morning was a bit too calm strangely calm. Not dead, not silent, just that unnerving kind of quiet where everything looks normal on the surface but the air carries something else entirely.
An observer, if they stood still enough, would notice it immediately: the subtle off–beat in the building's pulse, an eerie foreshadowing threading itself beneath the usual chatters, murmurs, colognes, and burnt coffee.
"Eiiish," Elodie let out a soft grunt, faint cold smoke escaping her lips like she'd exhaled winter itself.
She stretched away from her computer, spine cracking in protest, then slumped back into her chair rubbing her palms together with a sharp hiss.
"I hate this job—uh!!!" she muttered through clenched teeth, adjusting her crooked shades and sweeping back the silky strands of hair that kept slipping forward and glowing blue-white under the fluorescent lights.
