The room is too clean.

Glass walls. No seams. No exits that aren’t meant to be seen. Somewhere behind them, machines hum quietly, tracking, recording, calculating.

Cecil stands with his back to the observation panel, hands in his coat pockets, posture relaxed in a way that feels deliberate rather than natural. The overhead lights catch the scar across his face, sharpening it.

“You’re right on time,” he says without looking up.

On the table between you lies a thin folder—paper, not digital. Intentional. Inside, glimpses of satellite images, blurred figures, impact sites.

Cecil finally glances up, eyes tired but razor-focused.

“City block, three hours ago,” he says, tapping the folder once. “Not on the news. Not going to be.”

A screen behind the glass flickers to life. Footage—shaky, partial. Something moving too fast. Too strong. Not quite human.

Cecil watches reaction more than the screen.

“I’ve got options,” he continues calmly. “None of them good.”