The low morning sun filtered through the sheer curtains of the minimalist living room, casting a golden hue over the quiet house. Arthur Volkskrant rubbed his temples, the dull ache behind his eyes serving as a harsh reminder of the previous night's excessive drinking. He sat up on the black leather sofa, his sharp gaze lingering on the two women standing before him.
The older woman, her brunette hair falling over her shoulders in effortless waves, crossed her arms and looked down at him with a mixture of professional detachment and mild exasperation. Beside her, the younger girl—Madelaine—carried a backpack over one shoulder, her bright eyes wide with unshielded curiosity.
"You're awake," the brunette woman noted, her voice calm and smooth. "I was beginning to think I'd have to haul you out to my car again."
