The waiting lounge overlooked a garden that had cost more in landscaping than most mortals would earn across three lifetimes of honest labor.
Phei stood at the window with his hands buried in his pockets, silhouette carved against the moonlight like a statue of some forgotten god—beautiful and terrible and utterly, devastatingly still.
But his face betrayed nothing... absolutely nothing.
That emptiness wasn't peace but its cruel opposite—a tempest held back by will alone, lightning coiled behind glass that hadn't yet shattered.
Melissa watched him from across the marble floor.
That stillness troubled her more than rage ever could. Rage she understood—rage burned bright and fast, consumed itself in glorious conflagration, and left ash you could sweep into corners and forget.
This silence? This glacial, terrible quiet? This was the patience of something ancient deciding whether the room deserved to survive the next five minutes.
