Reinhart stood rigidly in the dimly lit hallway, his back pressed against the cold stone wall. The faint glow from the sconces along the corridor bathed him in flickering amber light. His gloved hands were clasped behind him, the leather creaking slightly as his fingers flexed unconsciously.
His sharp ears caught every word exchanged between Elion and Sloane. Though his face remained carefully blank, his mind churned with the pieces of information. The vague explanations. The subtle tension in Elion's voice. The way Sloane's responses sounded rehearsed rather than genuine.
Reinhart's gaze remained forward, unfocused on the empty hallway before him. What troubled him the most was the fear laced beneath Elion's calm facade—fear he was trying desperately to bury.
