The knock comes quietly.
Not the sharp, demanding sound of police breaking down a door. Not the aggressive rap of reporters who refuse to leave. Just a controlled, professional knock that carries weight because it does not need to announce itself. The kind of knock that assumes it will be answered.
Damian opens the door without hesitation.
Two officials stand in the hallway. Dark suits. Neutral expressions. Badges shown only briefly, the way people do when they expect cooperation rather than resistance. Their posture is relaxed, but not casual. These are people used to walking into rooms where power lives and speaking without apology.
They ask Damian for time.
I stay where I am, seated at the dining table, my hands wrapped around a mug that has long since gone cold. I made the coffee
