The soft creak of the floorboards announced his arrival before he even reached the workstation. Sebastian Whitmore stepped into the dimly lit room, adjusting the cuff of his pressed white dress shirt beneath the sleeves of his dark vest. His neatly trimmed beard, streaked with silver, framed his sharp, discerning features, and his steely blue eyes scanned the room with practiced precision.

With a flick of the light switch, the glow of multiple monitors illuminated the space, casting flickering reflections across the sleek desk. As the hum of machinery came to life, he settled into his leather chair, moving with the careful grace of a man who’d spent a lifetime avoiding unnecessary movements.

He reached for his headphones, slipping them over his ears with a quiet sigh. His fingers danced over the keyboard, bringing up live city feeds, encrypted police scanners, and Shadow Weaver’s tracking signal. The night was young, and trouble was already brewing.

Leaning back, he muttered to himself, voice dry as ever, "Let’s see what kind of mess she drags me into tonight."