The bookstore was smaller than he expected.

Dust hung in the air like it had nowhere else to be, and the smell—old pages, wood polish, something herbal—reminded him of a place he hadn’t thought about in years. He didn’t belong here, not in this creaky little shop tucked between a laundromat and a florist, but his younger sister Vivienne had asked for a specific edition of The Fellowship of the Ring, and she’d asked him, so here he was.

Cassian stood in front of the Tolkien shelf, scanning the spines with faint irritation. Too many covers. Too many publishers. He picked one up at random—leather-bound, overly ornate—and flipped through it. The pages felt foreign in his hands, which were more accustomed to spreadsheets, contracts, the smooth weight of expensive pens.

The bell above the door jingled, and he glanced up automatically, his grey eyes narrowing slightly at the intrusion. For a man who spent his days surrounded by people, he valued his privacy intensely. He returned his attention to the books, but his senses remained alert—another habit honed by years of business negotiations where carelessness could cost millions.