The air in the West Wing had grown heavy, a gilded cage where the scent of lilies now felt like the smell of a funeral. Mild sat on the edge of the velvet armchair, his eyes tracking Skyler as she moved around the room with a manic energy, checking the locks on the windows. Her phone sat on the marble vanity, a sleek sliver of titanium that represented Mild's only link to the world outside—to Zen, to safety, to sanity.
Mild waited for the moment she turned to adjust the heavy velvet drapes. He moved with the silence of a surgeon, his hand darting toward the vanity. His fingers were inches from the cool glass of the screen when a hand clamped around his wrist like a steel trap.
Skyler didn't scream. She didn't even sound surprised. She simply turned her head, a chilling, knowing smile playing on her lips as she twisted his arm just enough to force him to drop the device.
