Blackthorne Villa. 07:24 AM, just as Damien leaves.
The door hissed shut behind him.
A moment later, the silence returned.
No more footsteps echoing down the hall. No more casual barbs thrown over a shoulder. No more low, deliberate laughter that lingered longer than it should have.
Just stillness.
Elysia stood in the foyer for several seconds after Damien had left—expression unreadable, spine straight, hands loosely folded at her front. The AI registered his vehicle clearing the gate. The security system recalibrated.
The house began to settle.
She turned.
And resumed her routine.
***
Breakfast cleared. Dishes washed, dried, and shelved. Not by hand. By presence.
She didn't do dishes, not in the traditional sense. A combat maid of her standing didn't have to. The villa's systems handled the basics. Countertops wiped themselves. Dust was non-existent. Waste sorted, recycled, and sterilized by unseen vents.
Her being here was not for order.
It was for response.
