The office had felt colder lately.
Not physically—though the early spring rain hadn't helped—but in its rhythm, its silence. Aldrin's absence stretched long and shadowed, like a curtain drawn too early on a scene unfinished.
It had been a week.
A week since his chair remained empty. Since his footsteps hadn't echoed against the polished floors. Since his presence hadn't commanded the atmosphere with calm certainty.
And Iris felt it.
She'd grown restless, though she wouldn't admit it aloud. She buried herself in tasks, meetings, the fine-tuned orchestration of order. But the storm in her eyes betrayed her. It was there in the way she walked too fast down hallways. In the way she stared out of windows a moment too long.
Marek spotted her first—passing through the corridor outside the strategy room. Ainsworth flanked him, a coffee in hand and a knowing look in his eyes.
"She's hunting ghosts," Marek murmured under his breath.
"Or chasing shadows," Ainsworth replied with a wry smile. "Shall we interrupt the seance?"
"Be rude not to."
They fell into step, their presence casual yet deliberate. Iris was halfway down the hallway when Marek called out, "Careful, Iris—at the pace you're going, you might trip into another mysterious ex."
She stopped, turned slowly. "Excuse me?"
Ainsworth lifted his cup, grinning. "Just saying... you've already danced with one. And I must admit, I didn't expect Death's Office to be short-staffed."
Marek clutched his chest in mock drama. "Tragic, really. Resurrection is clearly trending."
A reluctant smile ghosted across her face. "You two are insufferable."
"Only when you let us be," Marek replied. "Though in our defense, we're just trying to lighten the mood."
"Or distract from the fact that none of us have heard from him," Ainsworth added, a little softer now.
The air shifted.
Her smile faded, replaced with something tighter, something more real. "You haven't seen him either?"
Marek's humor dimmed, his voice low. "Not since the gala. Not a whisper. No messages. No shows. And that man doesn't just vanish."
Ainsworth stepped forward, setting the cup on the sill nearby. "We're worried too, Iris."
She nodded slowly, arms folding across her chest. "He doesn't... do this."
"No," Marek said. "He doesn't."
The three stood in the hallway, surrounded by the quiet hum of servers and the scent of fresh documents. The silence between them felt almost sacred—like something waiting to be broken.
"I'll find him," Iris said finally, steady but distant. "He's not a ghost. Not to me."
Ainsworth raised a brow. "Good. Because we've got enough of those to deal with."
They shared a quiet laugh—fleeting, but grounding. And then the hallway returned to stillness.
The rain was light when she arrived—just a soft drizzle tapping on the hood of her coat as Iris stepped up to Aldrin's front door.
She hesitated.
Then, with a quiet breath and a glance around, she reached into her pocket and produced a key—sleek, silver, and cold in her hand. Aria had given it to her the day after the gala with a single sentence:
"Only if it's bad. He hates being alone, but he won't say it."
She slid it into the lock. The click echoed like a secret being told.
Inside, the house felt lived in but quiet—too quiet for someone like Aldrin. The air carried the faint scent of cedar and something metallic, like sweat clinging to steel. Iris moved through the halls softly, following the gentle thud of footsteps and the distant hum of an overhead fan.
And then she saw him.
Coming up the stairs from the home gym, towel slung across his shoulders, sweat still glistening along his chest. Aldrin—stripped of armor, of the curated elegance he wore so well. His body told a different story: tattoos woven with intention, scars carved by time and war. Even the look in his eyes—shadowed, raw—felt like something ancient stirred to life.
He stopped when he saw her.
"Iris?" he asked, breath catching slightly. "How—?"
"I let myself in," she said, leaning against the stair rail. "Emergency key. Aria's idea."
He blinked. "Of course it was."
"You know," she continued, tilting her head, "most people disappear when they want space. You? You vanish like a ghost in a legend and expect no one to come looking."
He gave a dry laugh, walking past her into the living room and tossing the towel onto the back of the couch. "I didn't expect you'd break in."
"Don't flatter yourself. Technically, it was a gentle infiltration."
"That's what all burglars say."
Iris shrugged, eyes trailing over the ink on his skin—lines that told stories she hadn't heard yet. "Well, forgive me for being concerned. You vanish, show up half-naked, and look like a haunted warrior god. I had questions."
He smirked, finally sitting on the couch, resting his elbows on his knees. "And what exactly were you hoping to find?"
"You, Aldrin," she said plainly. "Just you."
That silenced the air between them.
He exhaled slowly, shoulders heavier than she remembered. "I needed time. And I didn't know how to ask for it."
She nodded, stepping closer, the banter fading like fog under sunlight. "Next time... just leave a note."
Aldrin looked up at her—really looked—and something softened in his expression. "I'll try."
Iris lowered herself onto the arm of the couch, a quiet warmth in her voice. "Good. Because I don't like guessing games when I'm worried. Especially not when it's you."
There was no answer—just the low hum of silence and the storm that still lived beneath his ribs.