On the topmost floor of the mansion, in the vast balcony veranda area, Zethan sat on the railing, legs crossed, as he slowly inhaled his cigarette. His expression remained unreadable, lost in deep thought.
The wind was calm, yet carried a sharp chill, rustling the ends of his coat as it drifted around him. The night stretched endlessly, the stars shimmering like distant eyes watching over the world below.
From where he sat, the drop was perilous. A single misstep, a wrong tilt of his weight, and he would plummet to his death. Yet, despite the danger, he remained unbothered, as if the risk itself meant nothing.
Beside him, Lucas stood, his posture stiff, his eyes heavy with exhaustion. His boss had summoned him just as he was slipping into the best part of his rest, and now, here he was—struggling to stay awake while Zethan spoke in circles.
Every time Lucas thought he had an opening to respond, his boss would cut him off, as if toying with his patience.