The dim warehouse on the edge of Novan City smelled of damp concrete and rusted metal.
It was the kind of smell that clung to your clothes, the kind that reminded people this place wasn't meant for the clean or the honest.
The whir of old machinery echoed faintly from the back wall, a low mechanical heartbeat that gave the place a sense of unease.
Donald leaned back on the metal chair, his thick fingers drumming lazily on the armrest as he took another puff of his cigar. Smoke curled up into the air above him. He looked far too comfortable for someone facing down a man like Lucien.
But that was the thing. Donald wasn't impressed.
To him, Lucien was just a young face playing dress-up in his daddy's clothes.
"So," Donald said, exhaling smoke through his nose, "you're the one who's been sending messages in place of Alexander now, huh?"
Lucien said nothing.