Zubair did not fall.
One moment he was standing in the Sheriff's office, his feet planted waiting for the fight to break out, and his eyes locked on Sera. Then the next thing he knew, the system pulled at him, and he was standing somewhere else with both feet feeling solid beneath him.
There was no transition, no weightlessness. Nothing.
That alone told him this was intentional.
The space was large and quiet, not in the way empty rooms were quiet, but in the way it felt at the DMV. Sound didn't echo and if there were other people around, they were speaking too quietly for him to hear.
If the room wasn't circular, he really would have thought that Hell had a level called The Department of Motor Vehicle.
Zubair stood at the center of it on a marked section of floor that defined where he was meant to remain. The markings weren't glowing or magical. They were lines — subtle, precise — etched into the surface like boundaries no one needed explained.
