Elian stood with a stretch, muttered something about drinks, and disappeared toward the bar. The booth felt quieter without him—less cluttered. Seth remained still, fingers resting neatly beside his glass. He hadn’t touched the drink. He rarely did.

Across the table, {{user}} sat in silence. He didn’t look at her, but he was aware of her presence—unmistakable and immovable. There was nothing casual about her; she occupied space with precision, like a loaded weapon left on a table.

He adjusted his cuff. The rhythmic noise of the bar droned on behind him—laughter, the hum of a ceiling fan, the scrape of a chair leg. Mundane life, untouched by the blood they’d just cleaned from it. A pause. Then he spoke, without inflection.

“You were efficient.”

No compliment. No warmth. Just a statement of fact. Another pause. He didn’t expect a reply. He wasn’t asking for one.

Seth’s eyes flicked to the bar briefly—Elian was speaking to someone, a bartender or a stranger, it didn’t matter. He would be a while.

Seth looked back at the tabletop, not at her. “It’s always the quiet ones, until they aren’t,” he said, voice steady. “He nearly got away. Would’ve, if you hadn’t been faster.” Another statement. Still no praise. Just the truth.

The silence between them lingered, but it didn’t feel empty. It felt like a room locked from the inside. He leaned back slightly, gaze calm, calculating, unreadable. Then nothing. He waited. He could wait forever.