The door shut behind him with a soft but decisive click, sealing off Evelyn's winter-cold presence.
Julian exhaled, slow, controlled. A tremor threatened his hand, but he crushed it before it could show.
He'd survived his second judgment. For now.
Mira was still there, head bowed, eyes hollow and dim. When Julian stepped toward her, she neither flinched nor smiled.
"Isabella will be expecting you tomorrow," she recited in a tone as lifeless as a clockwork doll.
Julian studied her face for a heartbeat. The same girl he'd once tangled bodies with in breathless sin. The same girl who'd left claw-marks on his shoulders—marks that had faded but never quite left him.
Now she looked at him as if he was no more than another numbered tool.
"Understood," he answered, voice flat.
She turned away, drifting down the corridor like a ghost.
Julian watched her go, jaw tight. He wanted to call her name, to ask if she remembered anything, if the warmth had been real, but—
No.
