Greg observed Alaric, who stood by the balcony railing, his frame tense and unmoving. His hands gripped the cold metal tightly, veins standing out on the back of his hands as if betraying the storm raging within.
It was rare to see him this way—vulnerable, his emotions so close to the surface. Only Emerald had ever managed to pierce the armor he wore so resolutely.
In a low, measured voice, Greg tried to break the silence. "Boss, it's almost dawn. You should rest for a while."
Alaric didn't turn. His gaze remained fixed on the horizon, where the first light of morning began to bleed through the mist. His jaw tightened, and his voice carried a faint tremor beneath its usual calm.
"Yes," he murmured, almost to himself. "It's dawn… but that person is gone now."
A cold gust swept across the balcony, carrying with it the remnants of his cigarette. The ash dissolved into the wind, leaving only a faint trail of smoke in its wake.
