The sitting room they were led into was designed to appear comfortable while also functioning as a controlled environment.
Clean lines, low lighting, glass panels that probably turned opaque on command, discreet cameras disguised as decorative fixtures, and an air system that hummed softly in the walls as if the building was breathing through filters.
Dean sat on one end of a couch with the rigid posture of a man trying to remember how to exist normally.
Sylvia had claimed the armchair closest to the door on principle, civilian instincts overriding etiquette, with Boreas sprawled at her feet like a furry barricade. She rested one hand on his head as if anchoring herself to something that didn't speak in titles.
Arion sat across from Dean, composed again, legs crossed, hands relaxed on his knee like none of this was a personal trap set by fate.
Sebastian took the chair near the window, back straight, black hair neat, and green eyes alert even while he looked calm.
