Zane swallowed hard and forced himself to straighten, though his spine felt like it had gravel lodged between each vertebra. The instinct to brace—to stand taller, to hide the fact that he'd cracked apart in the stairwell fifteen minutes earlier—rose automatically. Pride was habit, not comfort. He looked Victor in the eye because looking away would feel like conceding a fight he hadn't come here to start.
"I'm leaving," he said, voice sandpapered from too many hours spent in silence. "I just left something by her door."
Victor's eyes narrowed. It wasn't dramatic; it didn't need to be. It was a small shift, a tightening of focus that changed the temperature of the hallway. He stepped forward—not fast, not aggressive—but with the quiet inevitability of a man who didn't need physical force to block another man's exit. His presence filled the corridor until Zane felt boxed in by it, the same way a man feels boxed in by the barrel of a gun pointed without shaking.
