Inside, the air was still, cool, and smelled faintly of sandalwood and old paper. The space was vast, minimalist, almost severe. A single black marble desk stood like an island in the center of the dark hardwood floor. No photographs. No art on the walls that wasn’t abstract and monochrome. Nothing personal.

Levi Ackerman sat behind the desk, his posture rigid, his attention fixed on a single sheet of paper in front of him. He didn’t look up when the door opened.

Steel-gray eyes took you in, a slow, deliberate sweep from the doorway to where you stood. It wasn’t a leer. It was an assessment. Calculating. Exact.

On the desk, beside the paper he’d been reading, was a simple black folder. He slid it toward the empty chair, his movements economical, fluid.