The air in the club's back corridor was heavy—like it remembered too much pain. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead as Wryn leaned casually against the wall, a cigarette dangling from his lips like an afterthought. His gaze lingered on Adrian, standing a few feet away, statuesque and cold, dressed in a tailored black suit that matched the frost in his silver eyes.
"You've changed," Wryn said suddenly, voice slurred faintly from whatever he had drunk that night. "Two years ago, you would've cried if someone raised their voice."
Adrian didn't blink. His arms were folded, and the shadows under his cheekbones deepened with the flickering light. He was perfectly still—an eerie calm before a storm.
"That was a long time ago," Adrian said quietly. "And I don't think we're on such warm terms that you get to mention the past."
Wryn snorted. "Right. You always were a sensitive brat. I still remember when Father locked you in the basement. God, you cried so much I thought you'd drown."
