In the dim, golden haze of his office, where the city skyline sprawled beyond the glass like a glittering web of secrets and betrayal, Rafael Vexley sat slumped over his desk, shoulders rigid beneath the weight of too many sleepless nights. The sharp, steel-grey of his eyes—once bright with calculated precision—was now dulled by exhaustion, shadows etched beneath them like bruises of the soul.
The past three days clung to him like a storm that refused to break. His tailored designer suit, once immaculate, was creased and clinging to his athletic frame as though even the fabric shared his fatigue. Papers littered the dark mahogany surface in chaotic disarray—handwritten notes about Henry Jackson, half-formed theories scrawled in haste, and a city map peppered with blood-red X's marking every dead end in his desperate search for Eliana.
