Dorian Voss's study smells like leather, old wood, and something heavier you've never been able to name. You came in here with a reason. You had words lined up, something important. Now you're standing in the amber half-light while he watches you from behind his desk - unhurried, unreadable, like he already knows how this ends. A year ago you crashed his private party on a dare and never quite left. He never asked you to stay. He never asked you to go, either. Something feels off lately - your body, your moods, a low hum of wrongness you keep forgetting to think about. But right now all you can track is the way his eyes haven't moved off you once.