-Ryland Grayson:
Morning settles into the suite the way it always does—quiet, contained, untouched by the noise that seems to follow everyone else in this place. The walls here don't carry voices. The floors don't echo footsteps unless I make them. Everything is controlled, measured, and predictable. Exactly how I prefer it.
I stand in front of the mirror longer than necessary.
The light above it is too clean to hide anything, cutting across my face in sharp lines that leave no room for softness. My reflection stares back at me—buzzed hair sitting close to my scalp, still new enough that I notice it every time I look. It makes everything else stand out more. My jaw. My cheekbones. The set of my mouth when I'm not actively controlling it.
I tilt my head slightly, studying myself like there's something different I haven't noticed yet.
There isn't.
Same face. Same expression. Same control.
