The next morning,
The Haven's main door creaked open, its hinges groaning faintly, a man stepped inside.
He moved with the quiet confidence of someone who belonged—broad-shouldered, his presence commanding without effort. Streaks of gray threaded through the dark hair at his temples, a sign of experience rather than age. His suit was impeccable, the crisp lines unmarred by travel, every detail speaking of precision and control.
Harris—Kael's old supervisor.
His gaze swept the room, taking in the worn furnishings, the faint metallic tang of dried blood still lingering in the air. Then, his sharp eyes landed on Kael.
A faint smile tugged at the corners of Harris's lips. Kael stepped forward, meeting him with a quick, firm clasp of hands—a gesture that spoke of respect.
The moment was brief.
Harris's gaze flickered, assessing, and the smile faded as his sharp eyes traced the bruises and cuts marring Kael's face. A map of recent battles.
