The room was dead silent, too silent for the Phantom Den.
The low hum of the air conditioner was the only sound filling the large, dim-lit space. Rhydric sat on the long couch, a book open in his hand, though his eyes hadn't moved across the page in minutes. His posture was stiff, sharper than usual.
Across from him, Theodore leaned back in his seat, flipping a pen between his fingers with practiced precision. The faint click of the pen against his knuckle echoed softly. His face was unreadable, the cold edge of his expression making the atmosphere even heavier.
Azrael sat on the corner couch, legs crossed, a cigar resting lazily between his lips. Smoke curled around him in lazy circles, faintly glowing against the warm light spilling through the blinds. He wasn't saying anything,he rarely did, but his silence this time wasn't peaceful. It was watchful.
