Silence lingered for a breath too long before the door parted, not with a hiss, but with the soft shift of pressure being released. Cat and the veiled man stepped out without a word.
Barit stepped in.
He wasn't wearing his usual half-smug grin or that flared coat. No rings, no charm. Just a white surgical apron over tight, combat-grade blacks. Sleeves rolled. Gloves already on, the kind that stretched tight enough to squeak when he flexed his fingers.
Behind him came another man. Broad. Older. Buzzcut. Heavy wrists. Goggles that made his dull eyes look insectile under the sterile ceiling light. He wore the same apron. Same gloves. No words. No wasted movement. He looked like this was routine.
Barit said nothing. Just walked in slowly, like silence was something he was used to stretching thin. Step by step, he approached the platform until he stood at its side, hands loose at his sides.
He looked down at me. Not with hate. Not anger.
Curiosity. Cold, clinical, and intact.
