Lucas walked alone through the quiet northern corridor, the echo of his footsteps sharp and even against the polished stone. The pressure that had once saturated the air was gone now—faded like mist at dawn. But the weight of the encounter still clung to his skin, subtle and electric, like the memory of thunder.
He adjusted his collar without thinking, his pace unhurried, his expression calm.
It went well.
Exactly as he'd calculated.
He didn't need to win them over completely. Not yet. In fact, winning them over too quickly would have only drawn suspicion. But planting the idea—the possibility—that he might be worth remembering? Worth watching?
That was the goal.
And by all measures, it had been met.
Lucas's thoughts were precise, layered as always, running in parallel—one part of him recalling every word spoken, every tonal shift, every pause; another dissecting the subtleties of the presence, the way it had reacted, the hints of the deeper game behind that cold voice.
