The hum of overhead lights flickers once. Riven doesn’t flinch. The stylus continues its slow, scraping arc across the glass screen, data trailing behind in crooked lines. He’s known Adrian would come the moment the second message hit.

The hand on the back of the chair arrives like fog. Soft. Cold. Inescapable.

“Cut it.”

He says it without turning. Without even a pause in his movements.

Not a challenge. Not a request. Just permission. Or maybe surrender.

He drags the stylus one more time before lifting it off the screen. The data saves with a faint beep. That’s the only sound in the room, besides the weight of Adrian’s breath somewhere behind him.

The chair creaks — just barely — as Riven leans forward, elbows on the table, spine curved like a wire bent one too many times.

The lights buzz.

The swelling in his leg pulses, then fades.

He doesn’t move again.