Someone's Pov
Cold reigned the room. Not the coolness of air-conditioning but the weight of silence—the kind that crushed against your chest and made you gasp for breath. Beneath fading golden lights, a large room extended out. Sleek black panels adorned the walls; each reflected minute glints of the serpent emblem drawn on them.
At the center stood a long obsidian table. Around it sat a few chosen members, their faces hidden beneath masks or turned into shadows by the way the light barely touched them. Deliberate, heavy, and thick were the vibe here.
Stepping forward, a man in a fitted black suit put a silver briefcase down. The lock clicked open. Inside were a little velvet pouch, photographs, and several neatly organized papers.
Report:
The voice came from the table's farthest end. Calm, smooth, yet sharp enough to cut through the stillness. It belonged to the figure seated beneath the faint glow of a single overhead light. No one would have interrupted that voice.
