Victor left close to midnight.
The private sitting room felt strangely quiet after the door closed behind him, as though the physician had taken the last of the clinical tension with him and left everything else scattered across the table instead.
Medical notes.
Old records.
The paused forest footage.
A half-finished glass of water Dean had forgotten about nearly an hour earlier.
Dean remained on the sofa, one leg folded beneath him while the other rested against the carpet, staring at nothing in particular.
Arion noticed.
He gathered the tablets from the table, locked the restricted files, and set them aside before coming back without saying anything.
Dean looked up only when Arion stopped in front of him.
"I should have told you."
Arion's expression barely changed.
"Told me what?"
"The eyes."
Dean rubbed one hand over the curve of his stomach.
"The teeth. The scent changing during your worst ruts. All of it."
Arion crouched in front of him.
