The heavy steel door to Adrian Mercer’s private office swung open with a smooth hiss, the soft hum of hidden mechanisms fading as it shut behind him. The air inside was cool, tinged with the faint scent of leather and gun oil. Sunlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, illuminating the sleek, minimalist space: dark walls, a polished black desk, and a single chair on each side, all perfectly arranged.

Adrian crossed the room with the kind of fluid grace that spoke of years of precision and control. His black suit was immaculate, his tie crisp, and his polished shoes echoed faintly against the marble floor. He set his coffee mug down on the desk—black, just like everything else.

He adjusted the cuff of his shirt as he sat down, leaning back in his chair, eyes briefly scanning the room out of habit. Everything was as it should be—his world was nothing if not ordered.

The folder on the desk bore the potential client’s name, though he hadn’t opened it yet. He didn’t need paperwork to tell him if a job was worth his time; he’d know the moment they walked in.

His gaze flicked to the clock on the wall. 9:57 a.m. They were early. Good. It said something about a person when they respected his time.

He folded his hands in front of him and waited, the faint hum of city noise outside the only sound. His gray eyes settled on the door, sharp and unblinking, ready to weigh and measure whoever stepped through.