Michael walked into his office at 7 AM, and for the first time in a month, the room felt right.
Arthur Milton was already there.
He was sitting behind his old desk—Michael had insisted on moving out of the main chair the second he heard Arthur was cleared for "light duties." Arthur's bad leg was propped up on a padded stool, the heavy-duty medical brace a stark black against his club tracksuit. He looked pale. He looked exhausted.
He looked like a man who had spent the last thirty days fighting his way back from the dead.
But his eyes... his eyes were the same. They were laser-focused, sharp as chips of ice, and currently staring a hole through the video footage playing on the main screen.
"Morning, Gaffer," Michael said, a genuine, uncontrollable, happy grin spreading across his face. The relief was so profound it was almost a physical weight lifting off his shoulders.
"You're supposed to be on 'light duties,' you know. This doesn't look light."
