Early November. The Cross Ministry, morning.
The rain had stopped, but the city hadn't yet remembered how to breathe.
Inside the Ministry of Justice, the morning light fell cold through the tall windows — gray and brittle, the kind of light that made people lower their voices and hurry their steps. Clerks moved softly in the corridors, the scent of ink and paper heavy in the air.
Behind the Minister's door, however, silence reigned.
Christopher Cross sat at his desk, his pen still over the parchment he had long forgotten to sign. The fire beside him burned low, untouched. His waistcoat was immaculate as ever, his expression composed — but the small details betrayed him.
The glass of water on his desk, untouched. The faint twitch of his fingers. The rigid stillness of a man restraining something far greater than anger.
It had been three days since Serena's last visit.
Three days since he had dismissed her, expecting her to return the next morning — as she always did.
