His team fell into formation behind him with military precision as he made his way forward, his gait uneven yet somehow more imposing. The gallery’s eyes tracked his progress, their usual wariness mixing with something like fascination at how he wore his trauma like a badge of honor.

Associates and paralegals assembled around him like chess pieces developing, sliding into position with practiced ease while Roma, the injured king, strategically castled himself behind their protection. Yet there was something almost comical in his demeanor - a barely suppressed grin playing at the corners of his mouth, his eyes bright with the kind of mirth that threatened to split more than just his composure. As if the whole performance was so amusing it might undo his sutures, tear him open all over again - this time from sheer, perverse delight.