The office felt different now.
Not physically—same glass walls, same view of the city stretching out below, same expensive furniture that whispered old money and power.
But something had shifted, some invisible weight that Felix only noticed because it was gone.
He stood at the window of his office, coffee in hand, watching the morning traffic crawl through the streets below.
Three weeks since the factory.
Three weeks since Fox had pressed a gun to his head.
Three weeks since Matteo had come for him.
Three weeks of healing.
"Staring out windows pensively again?" Elder's voice was warm with amusement. "I thought we'd broken you of that habit."
Felix turned, smiling. The older man stood in the doorway, his reading glasses perched on his nose, a stack of folders under his arm.
"Just thinking," Felix said.
"Dangerous pastime." Elder crossed to the desk, setting down the folders. "Quarterly reports. Nothing urgent, but they need your signature by Friday."
