CYAN
Edmond Devereaux was a man who didn't wait sitting down.
He was dressed impeccably in a navy suit that probably cost more than the average person's yearly mortgage, every crease a testament to a life of absolute control.
He didn't turn when I entered. He waited until I was halfway across the room, the silence stretching until it felt like a physical weight.
"Father," I chirped. I didn't stop moving until I was far too close to him, invading that bubble of prime ministerial dignity.
"I love what you've done with the place. The 'men with guns' aesthetic is very chic. Is this a wellness check or an assassination attempt? Because the car count suggests both, and I'd hate to dress inappropriately for my own demise."
Edmond didn't laugh. He didn't flinch. He finally turned his head, his gaze sweeping over me with the clinical detachment of a man reading a report he already knew was a failure.
