Lucian's private hangar was filled with different types of transport machines, it couldn't even be called a garage. Helicopters, private jets, cars of V-16 engines, motorcycles. The air smelt of high-grade aviation fuel.
Pre-dawn light, bled through the high, reinforced windows, casting long shadows across the tarmac.
The Black House security detail moved swiftly.
Lucian stood by the boarding stairs of a sleek, matte-black interceptor. He was still, his hands clasped loosely behind his back, his gaze fixed on the horizon. He looked calm—the kind of calm that usually preceded a localized extinction event.
Adrian watched him from ten feet away, leaning against a stack of equipment crates. He had learned the meaning behind Lucian's silence over the past few weeks. There was the silence of control, which felt like a heavy blanket. And then there was this—the silence of recalibration. Lucian was adjusting his internal maps, discarding old variables and accounting new ones.
