The evening air was heavy with the scent of roses and polished oak drifting from the grand Thompson mansion.
The golden lanterns at the front cast long shadows across the marble stairs, each flickering flame reflecting in Azazel's eyes as he stood there, still as a statue.
His hands were tucked neatly behind his back, but his weight shifted from one polished shoe to the other, betraying his impatience.
"Why are you standing here, Azazel? Are you expecting someone?"
Denovan's voice came firm and suspicious, cutting through the quiet hum of distant conversations from inside the mansion.
He appeared at the threshold, his posture regal, dressed in a tailored navy suit that fit him with the weight of authority.
His sharp gaze swept over his grandson, and already his brows creased with disapproval.
Azazel turned slightly, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "Yes, Grandpa. I'm waiting for someone. Don't worry, I'll be there in no time."
