The police station's top-floor conference room was sealed off from the rest of the building, but the tension inside it felt heavier than any locked door.
Clyde sat at one end of the long metal table, posture straight, hands resting loosely on his knees. His suit was immaculate, not a single wrinkle out of place, yet the stillness of his body carried the quiet pressure of a coiled blade. Across from him sat Nabil Lobart.
Nabil's shoulders were squared, but the tightness in his jaw betrayed the strain beneath his composed exterior. His fingers were interlocked on the table, knuckles faintly pale. Every few seconds, he exhaled sharply through his nose, as if trying to restrain something simmering just below the surface.
Between them sat several senior officers. At the head of the table was Superintendent Kim.
