The man seated behind the desk appeared strikingly young, perhaps only in his early thirties. Sleek blonde hair was combed neatly back from a sharply defined face, his blue eyes clear and observant beneath finely shaped brows. His hollow cheekbones gave his features a sculpted elegance, lending him a handsome yet faintly predatory charm.
He wore a dark blue suit layered over a simple white T-shirt, a combination that balanced casual confidence with calculated professionalism.
Raising one hand in a smooth, welcoming gesture, he said, "Please, have a seat." His tone was courteous, yet there lingered the faintest trace of arrogance in the way his gaze lingered over Lucas and his companions, measured, weighing, quietly assessing.
Lucas accepted the invitation without hesitation and took a seat across from the desk. Fargo and Fredhardt remained standing at his left and right, their silent presence unmistakably protective, like twin pillars guarding a throne.
