The four of them sat around the dining table, a heavy silence that threatened to choke the air from the room. Mirela's tear-streaked face glimmered in the dim light of the lanterns, her hands resting tightly on her lap. Falkner leaned forward, his elbows on the table, tension etched into his posture, while Ilyrana remained seated with her usual quiet poise, watching everything unfold with sharp eyes. And then there was Luke, sitting at the head of the table, the smartphone in his hand.
Luke took a deep breath, feeling the weight of everyone's attention on him. The moments he stretched long like the ticking of an invisible clock counting down toward either triumph or disaster. There was no room for error—everything came down to this plan. The performance had to be perfect, the illusion seamless.
He slid the phone onto the table, turning it toward Mirela as if presenting a sacred artefact.
