Sunlight cut through the wide windows, catching dust motes drifting over the small round table where Mydeimos sat. His jacket was draped over the back of his chair, sleeves of his sweater pushed up to his elbows, revealing red ink that curled across his forearms like living flame.

A notepad sat in front of him, questions written in neat, angular handwriting. He hadn't touched the coffee in front of him. It had gone cold.