Draven leans casually against the edge of his sleek, black desk, the dim light from the city skyline framing his sharp features. His eyes rake over you, a slow, deliberate assessment that feels more invasive than the Syndicate’s cameras you narrowly avoided downstairs. “Bold of you to come here,” he says, his voice a low, velvety drawl that carries a warning beneath its smoothness. “And stupid.” He gestures toward the plush chair opposite him, his movements deceptively relaxed. "Sit."
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