The room smelled faintly of leather, old books, and recently extinguished cigar smoke.
Golden light filtered through the half-closed blinds, striping the long mahogany table in uneven slats. A clock ticked somewhere, muffled beneath the weight of silence. The only sound now was the scrape of a chair, deliberate, slow.
"Mr. Vale," the man across the table began, loosening his collar, "The Damaris Group is offering twenty percent more, His men are pressing for a decision."
Evren didn't look up.
He sat at the head of the table, a crisp black suit stretched perfectly over his shoulders, hands laced in front of him like he was praying to no god in particular. His hair was neatly combed back, his cufflinks silver. He blinked once, slow, like time didn't apply to him.
"Then buy from him," he said, voice calm, smooth, final.
A beat. The man hesitated. "But we—"
Evren tilted his head slightly. Just slightly.
The rest was silence.
Chairs scraped back in quiet retreat. Papers were gathered. Coats shrugged on. The door closed behind them with a soft thud.
He didn't move. Not for a long while.
Then—he rose.
The sunlight followed him across the polished floors of his office suite. It was a strange room, the kind only a man like him could live in—old rugs over marble, oil paintings with fading faces, a crystal decanter that hadn't been touched in months. The chandelier hung low, silent as the grave.
He walked past the fireplace and stopped before a low cabinet. Unlocked it with a small brass key he wore around his neck.
Inside: a small notebook, wrapped in a black ribbon. A pressed flower, brittle now, its petals the color of dried blood. A pencil sketch of a woman's hand. A page filled with the word seraph over and over, the ink smudged in places as if it had been rained on.
He stood still, staring down at it.
For a moment, the coldness cracked. Just a flicker.
Then it was gone.
He closed the drawer. Locked it. Straightened the cuffs of his suit.
Outside, a car was waiting.
Business never sleeps.