The heavy doors hissed shut, sealing the office into a vacuum of blue-tinted silence. The echoes of Malcolm Ford's frantic, retreating footsteps still seemed to vibrate in the floorboards, a rhythmic testament to the Alpha's shattered composure.
Dahmer Lukas stood by the wall where Malcolm had pinned him, his gloved fingers tracing the faint indentations in his silk lapels where the billionaire's grip had been strongest. The silver resonance in the air was thick—a psychic residue of Malcolm's fury and the Enigma's cold, calculated pressure.
A side panel slid open, and Kaelen stepped into the room. He looked at the spiderweb cracks in the desk, then at the lingering scent of jasmine from the departed women.
