Security changes the texture of a place.
I notice it immediately.
The new apartment doesn’t feel smaller with the added layers. It feels sharper. Awake. Like it’s learned how to breathe differently. Cameras hum softly behind walls, a sound you don’t consciously register until it’s gone. Sensors blink once, then settle, their presence quiet but constant. Doors no longer close with a simple click but with a low, reassuring finality that carries weight, like the building itself is agreeing to keep us inside.
Damian oversees everything himself.
Not because he doesn’t trust his people. He does. Implicitly. But this move isn’t theoretical to him. It isn’t a line item or a protocol. It’s personal. He walks the perimeter with quiet focus, checking angles, testing sightlines, pausing at windows
