The group sat together in the living room, the familiar sprawl of their downtime settling into the furniture like it belonged there. The trio occupied the larger couch facing the TV, controllers in hand, the glow of the game washing over their faces. Anton sat in a chair to their right, watching them with an expression caught somewhere between fondness and something older—the particular weight of a man who had spent centuries alone and was still adjusting to the noise.
Michael had arranged himself vertically in another chair, his head on one armrest, his legs dangling over the other. It looked uncomfortable. He appeared entirely content.
Zeke walked in without announcement, crossed to the drink rack, pulled a bottle, and tilted it back. The gulp was long, audible, and entirely without ceremony.
