Ian stepped through the door, the scent of cooked meat and sweat mingling in the air.
Two dozen eyes turned on him, every one of them trying to measure his intent, his identity, and most importantly—his threat level.
He said nothing at first. Just walked, slow and relaxed, toward the dining table.
The woman seated there flinched slightly but didn't look at him directly. Her hands trembled faintly in her lap, hidden beneath the tablecloth.
Her eyes flicked toward him for the briefest second—then back down.
"Good evening," Ian said casually, pulling out the empty chair beside her and sitting down as if he'd been invited. "I hope I'm not interrupting anything."
Silence. The kind of silence that had sharp edges.
The broad-shouldered man sitting across from the woman—the one eating with such deliberate care—paused mid-cut. His knife and fork were silver, gleaming under the room's low lamp.
He said nothing. Just watched Ian.
