The return to the 102nd floor was marked by a suffocating silence. The sun had climbed higher, casting long, sharp blades of light across the floors of the executive suite, but the warmth of the day didn't seem to penetrate the glass.
Malcolm Ford walked into the center of the room, his presence once again filling the space with a heavy, magnetic weight. He didn't look like a man who had been at death's door an hour ago. But his brow was furrowed, a permanent line of irritation etched between his eyes. He stood by the massive floor-to-ceiling window, his back to the room, staring out at the city as if he could see the invisible threads of the conspiracy weaving around him.
On the leather sofa, Luca sat up slowly.
He looked fragile. His skin was still pale, a thin sheen of cold sweat making his hair stick to his forehead. He had been attended to by the junior medical staff—given a hydration IV and a mild sedative—and he was playing the part of a recovering Omega to perfection. His movements were sluggish, his shoulders hunched as if he were trying to make himself as small as possible under Malcolm's shadow.
Marcus stood by the desk, his hands clasped, watching the interaction with a bated breath. He knew the look on Malcolm's face. It was the look of a man who had found a flaw in a line of code and was prepared to delete the entire program to fix it.
Malcolm stayed a cold, disciplined distance away, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly rasp that vibrated in the quiet air.
"You," Malcolm said. To him, the boy was still a variable, an interruption.
Luca flinched slightly, his fingers twisting the hem of the oversized cream sweater. "Y-yes, sir?"
"The hallway," Malcolm stated, his words clipped and efficient. He turned his head just enough for his amber eyes to catch Luca's profile in the reflection of the glass. "When I was... incapacitated. You were sitting by the door. You didn't move."
Luca nodded weakly, pushing his glasses up his nose. "I was... I was scared, Mr. Ford. I didn't know what was happening. Everything felt so heavy. I couldn't have moved even if I wanted to."
Malcolm's eyes narrowed. He was thinking of the CCTV footage. He and Marcus had spent ten minutes in the security hub before coming back up. The footage was seamless. It showed the hallway in high definition: Luca sitting on the floor, his head in his hands, trembling. For the entire duration of the miracle healing, the door had remained closed. No one had entered. No one had left. The hallway was a vacuum of activity.
And yet, Malcolm's blood was singing with a foreign silver energy. His wounds hadn't just closed; they had been erased.
"Think carefully," Malcolm commanded. His irritation was a physical thing now, a dark aura that made the air feel static. "Did you see anyone else? A man. Someone tall. Someone who didn't belong on this floor. Think about the service elevators. The ventilation. Did anyone—anyone—pass that door while Marcus was gone?"
Luca looked down at his lap, his expression one of desperate, straining concentration. Inside, Dahmer was laughing. He was watching the king chase ghosts, hunting for a man who was currently sitting three meters away from him in a thrift-store sweater.
"No one," Luca whispered, his voice cracking. "It was just me. And the silence. I didn't see a soul, sir. I was... I think I blacked out for a few seconds because of the scent. But when I was awake, the hallway was empty."
Malcolm finally turned around. He stayed at the far edge of the room, his hands shoved deep into his trouser pockets. He looked at the boy and saw the trembling hands, the watery eyes, the scent of lilies that was now faint and sickly.
He looked for a lie. He looked for a flicker of the Enigma strength Dr. Armstrong had described. But all he saw was a pathetic, brilliant student who looked like he might break if the wind blew too hard.
"No one," Malcolm repeated, the word sounding like a curse.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Ford," Luca said, his bottom lip trembling. "Did I... did I miss something? Was someone supposed to be there?"
Malcolm didn't answer. The silence stretched, becoming agonizing. He was irritated by the boy's weakness, irritated by the lack of evidence, and most of all, irritated by the fact that he felt a strange, inexplicable pull toward the very person he found most annoying. Every time he looked at Luca, the coldness on his skin intensified.
"Marcus," Malcolm barked, his voice sharp enough to make the assistant jump.
"Yes, sir?"
"Get him out of here," Malcolm said, turning back to the window. He didn't want to look at Luca anymore. The sight of the boy's fragility was grating against the raw, new power in his veins. "The internship doesn't start properly until tomorrow. He's useless to me in this state. Take him back to whatever hovel he lives in. I don't want to see him again until he can stand up straight."
"Of course, sir," Marcus said, moving quickly toward the sofa. "Come on, Luca. Let's get you home."
Luca stood up, his legs wobbling for effect. He leaned heavily on Marcus, playing the burden until the very last second. He just let himself be led out of the executive suite, a sick boy dismissed by an Alpha.
As the elevator doors closed, Malcolm Ford stood alone in the center of his empire. He touched his chest, feeling the steady, powerful thrum of his heart.
"No one entered," he muttered to the empty room. "Then how did I heal?"
He looked at the sofa where the boy had been sitting. The scent of lilies lingered, faint and teasing. Malcolm's jaw tightened. He didn't believe in miracles.
He was going to find out the truth, even if he had to burn Freenly City to the ground to do it.