Adyr gripped the doorknob and opened it with a slow, deliberate motion. The voice he heard, confident and calm, left no doubt. It was the Cannibal's. And it was an invitation.
He stepped inside.
There were no traps. He could feel it in the air. The man's psychological profile had already taken full shape in his mind.
Adyr had come here as a hunter. The Cannibal was the prey. For days, he'd been filling in the blanks of this man's persona, thinking, calculating. Until now, the picture had felt incomplete. But this room, this performance, finished it.
The Cannibal wasn't a gang leader. Not really. He probably didn't even think of himself as one.
He was something else. A conductor. A curator of chaos. A man who believed himself to be an artist.
As Adyr crossed the threshold, the scent of burning myrrh and aged wine filled his nose. Heavy, indulgent, meant to impress. There was no trace of poison or chemical interference in the air. Just arrogance, masked as sophistication.
