They reached the chamber.
It wasn't a boardroom. It wasn't even an office. It was something in between—glass walls, black flooring, and a single metallic table at the center under a pale beam of cold light.
Shen pulled out the chair for her like a gentleman preserved in amber—a relic from a more refined, dangerous time. Every movement of his was deliberate, courtly, almost theatrical, as if he were auditioning for the role of 'charming threat.' Ava sat without a word, posture rigid but poised, her fingers lightly clasped in her lap.
He didn't sit right away. He rounded the table slowly, as if savoring the moment, then finally took the seat across from her. Folding his hands with the precision of a man who never acted without intention, Shen regarded her with the kind of smile that never reached the soul.
"So," he said, voice smooth as lacquered silk, "what did you come here for, my Avarielle?"
