Aerenyx did not announce himself when he arrived. He did not need to.
The corridor outside the administrative wing of the research complex quieted on its own as he walked through it, the low hum of conversations thinning, and footsteps hesitating just a fraction of a second too long.
The humans around him did not look at him directly, but their bodies registered him anyway—posture shifting, breath stalling, hands tightening on clipboards and tablets they suddenly remembered they were holding.
He did not slow for them.
Dr. Havel was waiting at the end of the hall, exactly where he had been instructed to stand, posture rigid in the way of men who believed discipline could shield them from judgment. He was older than most of the staff here, his hair iron-gray and pulled neatly back, his lab coat immaculate. His eyes, however, betrayed him. They darted too often. Calculating. Measuring.
