The motorcar purred to a stop before the Ministry of Justice, the faint smell of fuel curling in the morning air.
Charlton stepped out, buttoning his coat, his movements controlled, deliberate. The Ministry's marble façade rose like a monument to order — or vanity. It was difficult to tell which.
Inside, the sound of footsteps and clipped voices echoed down long corridors. The monarchy's velvet halls were gone, replaced by these bright, efficient offices. The new government had no need for ceremony; power was cleaner now, colder.
Charlton gave his name to the secretary and didn't wait to be announced. The small act of defiance steadied his nerves — just barely.
The door clicked shut behind him.
Christopher Cross stood by the window, back turned, one hand tucked casually into his pocket. Morning light caught on his cufflinks — silver glinting like the edge of a knife.
