Arthur Warner

Xavier Truman drove with one hand resting loosely on the steering wheel, the other drumming against the door in rhythm with the radio. Late afternoon sunlight filtered through the windshield, bathing the quiet neighborhood in a warm, nostalgic haze. The radio crackled softly.

The release wing door buzzed before it opened. There was no ceremony to it. No applause. No relief. Just a metal door that opened and closed without emotion. Daniel Danvers stood beside his car in the visitor lot, cigarette balanced between his fingers, smoke unraveling into the cloudy afternoon sky. The gravel shifted under his shoes when he adjusted his stance. He checked his phone again. No new messages from Alexander.