The middle-aged man found himself staring directly into Lyra's piercing crimson eyes. Those eyes didn't just look at him... they seemed to cut through him like sharp blades.
He tried his best to remain composed, keeping a polite smile on his face, but there was a silent force pressing down on his chest like an invisible weight.
And strangely enough, he knew that pressure wasn't coming from Lyra herself, nor from the towering Tyrant unit standing beside her like a metal mountain. No... it was something else.
In his many years working as a seasoned mercenary, he had developed a certain sixth sense, a gut feeling that had saved his life more than once.
He could usually tell where danger was coming from, who was hiding a knife behind their back, or when a room was a trap. But right now, his instincts screamed in every direction. There was no single source. It was as if the room itself, the very air, was watching him... waiting.
