The master suite of the Armitage estate, once a symbol of absolute power, had become a quiet cell for its owner. Arm sat in the dim light, the glow of his phone screen reflecting in his tired eyes. The "Ice King" looked brittle, his crown replaced by a weight of uncertainty he couldn't shake.
For the tenth time that hour, Arm pressed "Call." He didn't even hear a ring; it went straight to the sterile, automated voice informing him that the call could not be completed. He tried sending a message—a simple, desperate plea for five minutes of conversation—only for the "Delivered" status to remain stubbornly absent.
He stared at the screen, his thumb hovering over the "Call" button again. A few months ago, the old Arm would have had his security team track Mild's GPS coordinates. He would have sent a car to intercept him, or he would have kicked down the door of that tiny apartment and dragged Mild back to the estate, convinced that he could "force" Mild to see the truth.
