The moment Anastasia and Dante stepped into the stark, modern room deep inside Logan's mansion, the atmosphere shifted. Cold fluorescent lights cast a blue hue over the polished white marble floor and sleek silver panels lining the walls. It felt less like a home and more like a classified government facility. The quiet hum of machines and faint buzz of electricity added to the tension.
At the center of the room, behind a glass desk, sat Logan. A man in his mid-thirties, sharp-featured and immaculately dressed in a dark turtleneck and blazer, he removed the glasses perched low on the bridge of his nose the moment they entered. The corners of his lips curved into a calculating smile, like someone who'd just received a puzzle piece they'd been missing for far too long.
"Well, well," he murmured, pushing himself to his feet. His voice was smooth, low, and unreadable. He didn't bother with pleasantries. Instead, he turned around and walked toward a steel door at the back of the room.
