Mads’ footsteps were the only sound in the corridor.

Polished shoes over velvet carpet, each step deliberate, echoing just faintly beneath the low hum of ceiling lights. The hallway stretched long and pristine—soft cream walls, recessed lighting, and a deep cobalt rug patterned like tropical fronds. Quiet. Empty. The kind of silence that felt… intentional.

Mads didn’t mind being alone. In fact, he welcomed it. No cameras. No handlers. No forced smiles or shallow small talk. Just stillness. The press of solitude against his shoulders like a tailored coat.

He adjusted his collar with one hand, the black fabric of his suit crisp, perfectly fit. A single lock of his greying hair dipped forward from the motion. There was something almost cinematic about it—the way the light traced along his silhouette, the slow, composed rhythm of his pace. If someone were watching, they might think he looked like he belonged in a noir film, or something far darker.

His hands were tucked into his coat pockets, posture loose, gaze forward, though he’d long since noted the figure standing at the far end of the hall. The one he had been trying to get a moment with for weeks.

He didn’t stop walking, a small, gentle smile forming on his lips as he pulled closer. His voice, when he finally spoke, was a soft murmur—thick with accent, but low and level.

“…You’re a long way from the lobby.”