The golden light of dawn spilled through the towering panes of Shen's office, gilding the marble floors and stark walls in a fleeting warmth. The world outside was slowly stirring—birds flitting across bare branches, delivery trucks humming on distant roads—but inside, silence reigned. Cold. Controlled.
Shen remained unmoving in his chair, his back straight and one hand resting lightly on the armrest. His other hand curled near his lips, a thoughtful motion as he traced the edge of a silver ring worn on his middle finger—ornate, old, and engraved with a symbol no one outside the original dynastic circles would recognize.
He did not blink as he stared at the two men standing before him. Dressed immaculately in tailored black suits, they exuded the quiet intensity of operatives who had long shed conscience for the sake of command. Their eyes bore no light—only the weary sharpness of men who had seen too much and buried even more.
