(LOCKE)
Erik is in his office.
I've been in this marbled room with its high ceilings and large windows before. He's pacing, his lean, muscled body hidden under one of the ridiculous suits that he likes wearing so much. He sees me and holds up a finger, a phone pressed to his ear. He's speaking in another language, arguing with someone.
I lean against the door jamb, hands in my pockets, waiting for him to be done.
The tension in his voice is rising with each word, and at one point, he slams his fist against the wall. That has me raising my eyebrows. Erik is not a man who is easily rattled. He's normally extremely cunning and dangerously calm, even in the face of potential death.
I would know.
