The atmosphere in Allen's office was silent, save for the rhythmic scratching of his quill as it moved across parchment. Sunlight filtered faintly through the tall windows, striking the imperial seal carved into the desk—symbol of power, of duty, and of everything that weighed upon him. Papers were stacked in neat, unforgiving piles, signed one after another with swift precision.
But amidst that serenity, something unseen began to stir.
A faint ripple, like black smoke, twisted in the corner of the room. It started small—barely a shimmer in the air—yet it pulsed with a faint red glow, unnatural and malicious. The scent of brimstone followed, faint but unmistakable.
Allen did not raise his head immediately. His pen continued moving. But the instant the air temperature dropped unnaturally, he stopped mid-signature. His green eyes, usually calm and unreadable, flicked toward the movement.
