Sylvan Cheney, in a black suit, stood in the open.
His figure was slim, his face frosty, and he emanated a cold, solitary aura.
A man apart.
His sharp eyes were fixed on the second floor of the villa, where the doors and windows were tightly shut.
"Mr. Cheney, I'll go check if Luka Xadrian is there," Charles Mcintosh suggested.
Sylvan Cheney raised his hand to stop him: "No need, he's there."
Charles Mcintosh squinted his eyes, he didn't see anyone.
Yet, as soon as he finished speaking, sure enough, a middle-aged man came down from the second floor.
The man wore a simple grey sweater, was unkempt, with a cigar clutched between his fingers.
His hair and beard were long, he looked weather-beaten.
Luka Xadrian was coming down the steps.
The wooden steps creaked with every step he took.
And beneath them, a solitary, forlorn shadow.
Luka Xadrian glanced at Sylvan Cheney, then lowered his head to adjust his sweater cuff.
Neither warm nor cold.
