CASSIAN
The treatment room Cyan led me into smelled of fresh paint, expensive floor wax, and the sterile promise of a space not yet born.
It was in-between… the chairs still wore their plastic shrouds, and the large, silver-backed mirrors were uncovered but reflected only an empty room. It was the right kind of place for a conversation that didn't officially exist.
Cyan pulled a cigarette case from his pocket.
It was a slim, gold thing, imported from somewhere that charged for the heritage of the metal as much as the tobacco inside.
He didn't do half-measures; he never had. He lit one, the flame dancing in the reflection of the dark window, and offered it to me.
I took it. The first draw was smooth and heavy.
Outside this door, the salon was a quiet masterpiece. Somewhere in the office, Noah was likely staring at a catalog that was making him question every life choice that had led him to this afternoon.
But in here, the air was different.
