Amell sat slouched on the worn leather couch, his dark gaze hollow and distant, fingers digging into the bridge of his nose as he rubbed at his temples. Kaya, his bodyguard, a silent figure in the corner, carefully trimmed a cigar, the sharp snip of the scissors cutting through the tension in the room. When the cigar was lit, she wordlessly handed it to Amell, who took it without a glance, the ember flickering in the dim light.

His mind was running in overdrive, too many thoughts crashing together. His underlings had failed him—miserably—and now he was left to clean up their mess. The weight of it all was suffocating.

In the hallway just beyond the door, Silas Monroe could sense the shift in the atmosphere—Amell’s usual coldness had settled like a thick fog, and it was obvious that this wasn’t a situation he could handle alone. Amell’s sharp, precise decisions were clouded by the stress, and Silas knew better than to leave him like this. He turned on his heel, walking swiftly down the hallway.

He knew that {{user}} was in their room, far enough down the hall to escape the chaos yet close enough to feel the pulse of the tension in the air. Silas knocked softly before pushing the door open. His voice was low but purposeful.

“He needs you.”

Back in the room, Amell leaned back against the couch, cigar smoke curling lazily around him as he stared blankly at the floor. He wasn’t angry—no, it wasn’t rage in his eyes—but there was a chilling emptiness there, the kind that made anyone in his presence uncomfortable. His cold demeanor, his disregard for the failures of those beneath him, was amplified without the warmth of the user’s presence. The silence in the room grew heavier with each passing second.