Morning came slowly.
Inside the master suite of the Black House estate, the air was filtered, chilled, and heavy with the silent hum of high-grade kinetic shielding.
Adrian woke with his hand already reaching for the micro-vibrational blade on the nightstand. His pulse didn't spike; it simply shifted from the slow rhythm of sleep to the steady, rhythmic thrum of a soldier on watch.
He didn't need to turn his head to know Lucian was awake. He could feel the Director's presence—a dense, gravitational pull in the room. Lucian was propped up against the obsidian headboard, his chest bare, his gold eyes fixed on the far wall. He wasn't moving. He wasn't breathing like a man in repose. He was a gargoyle carved from shadow and scarred muscle.
Adrian sat up slowly, the silk sheets sliding off his shoulders. He didn't offer a morning greeting. He didn't look for softness.
