He sat in a high-backed chair, one leg crossed over the other. Tie gone. Shirt unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. A glass of amber liquid in one hand.
Smoke curled lazily from the cigarette between his fingers.
He didn't look at me immediately.
Just sat there, staring out at the city, tension rolling off him in waves.
For a moment, the world seemed to narrow to the slow burn of his cigarette and the distant hum of the city.
The smoke curled around him like it belonged to him, softening the harsh lines of his face while somehow making him look even more dangerous.
Something in the room felt taut, stretched thin, like the air itself was holding its breath, waiting to see what version of him I'd walked into tonight.
I froze in the doorway.
Something was wrong.
Not wrong in the "I'm about to die" sense.
Wrong in the "he's in a mood" sense.
And that was somehow worse.
"Close the door."
His voice cut through the silence, low and controlled.
