Azrael did not wait to be invited.
He pulled out the chair beside Valerie and sat down with the same unhurried ease he carried everywhere, as if the space already belonged to him, as if the air itself adjusted around his presence. The faint scrape of the chair against the floor cut through the tension that had already begun to thicken between the three of them.
Valerie's fingers tightened around her cup.
Marco's posture shifted almost imperceptibly, his shoulders straightening, his gaze sharpening as it moved from Valerie to Azrael with open scrutiny.
For a moment, no one spoke.
Azrael leaned back slightly in his seat, one arm draped lazily over the backrest, his other hand resting on the table. His expression held a faint, almost polite smile, but there was nothing warm about it. His eyes remained fixed on Marco, measuring him with quiet precision.
"So," Azrael said at last, his tone smooth, almost conversational. "You're the one."
Valerie's head snapped toward him. "Azrael—"
