The heavy, soundproofed doors of the private medical wing at the Armitage estate clicked shut, leaving the world of silken deceptions and soft-spoken lies behind. Inside the clinical yet luxurious office, the air was sterile, cooled to a precise temperature that mirrored the sharp, analytical mind of the man sitting behind the mahogany desk.
Dr. Iris Thorne adjusted his glasses, the light from the surgical-grade lamps reflecting off the thin silver frames. He was a man of quiet stature and immense discretion, the only person in the world who truly knew that the "Ice King" wasn't a broken mirror, but a perfectly functioning blade hidden in a velvet sheath.
Arm stood by the window, his back to the doctor. He wasn't wearing the silk robe of a patient today; he was in a charcoal turtleneck that made him look like the predator he had always been. His posture was no longer hesitant or "shaky." He stood with a terrifying, vertical stillness.
