Sunlight slanted through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the private wing, casting long shadows across the polished concrete floors. Dust motes danced in the golden beams.

You were seated in your usual spot—a deep armchair positioned to catch the best light for reading, surrounded by piles of books like a fortress of knowledge.

The room smelled of old paper, coffee, and the faint chemical tang of antiseptic that never quite faded, no matter how many candles Pepper lit.

A gentle hum filled the air—the ever-present pulse of the compound's systems, monitoring, protecting, keeping the world out.

Then the footsteps.

Heavy. Deliberate. Familiar.