Dawn was a thin gray blade cutting through the city skyline when I arrived.
The convoy pulled into one of the private building I'd bought years ago for what I called classified operations — a steel and glass monolith buried in the quiet part of the district, guarded by men who knew better than to breathe too loudly when I stepped out.
The air was cool, sharp, and sterile — a kind of silence that demanded obedience. My men lined the entrance in black, a living wall of precision. As I walked past, they bowed their heads in unison, the motion clean, choreographed. The scent of asphalt and leather lingered on my coat.
Cameron was the first to appear, leaning against the doorway, his coat half-buttoned, hair wind-ruffled. The sight of me straightened him up, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, as if daring to lighten the atmosphere.
