Tailored suit.
Perfect posture.
Calm in a way that doesn’t come from confidence—
but from certainty.
He knows something we don’t.
Or thinks he does.
“You’re at a crossroads,” he says smoothly.
No raised voice.
No urgency.
That’s how you know he’s dangerous.
“Dr. London can either cooperate… or be remembered.”
The words hang there.
Polite.
Measured.
A threat wrapped in diplomacy.
I step forward.
Slow.
Deliberate.
Positioning myself between him and Lark without making it obvious.
“She’s not your leverage.”
His eyes flick to me.
Assessing.
Recalibrating.
“No,” he replies.
“She’s your liability.”
That’s when I smile.
And that’s when he should’ve known—he miscalculated.
Because I don’t smile when I’m calm.
I smile when I’ve decided something.
“You just walked into the wrong room,” I tell him.
