The interior of Dahmer Lukas's private office was a vault of absolute silence and oppressive minimalism. The walls were panels of brushed obsidian, and the only light came from a recessed lunar-blue glow in the ceiling that made everyone look like they were standing at the bottom of a deep, cold ocean.
Dahmer sat behind a desk carved from a single block of translucent quartz. He had not removed his mask. The matte-black surface stared at Malcolm with a blank, terrifying neutrality.
With a slow, deliberate movement of his gloved hand, Dahmer gestured toward a crystal decanter on the corner of the desk. The liquid inside was a pale, shimmering amber.
"A drink, Mr. Ford?" the synthetic baritone hummed through the mask's processors. "It is a specialized blend. It stabilizes the neural pathways after a Black Cycle. Most Alphas would pay a fortune for a single glass."
