The man in the theif wheelchair turned toward me slowly.
For one suspended second, neither of us spoke.
He was younger than I had tools expected.
Forty, maybe forty-one.
Dark hair fell slightly over his forehead, and although his face was pale from months indoors, there was something unmistakably powerful about him. Not physical strength anymore, perhaps, but presence. The kind of presence that made a room feel smaller.
His eyes settled on me.
Gray.
Cold.
Observant.
“You’re the new caregiver?” he asked.
His voice carried no warmth.
“Yes.”
“What’s your name?”
“Rachel Morgan.”
The moment I said it, something changed in his expression.
It lasted less than a second.
A tightening around the eyes.
A flicker of recognition.
Then it disappeared.
“Rachel Morgan,” he repeated quietly.
“Yes.”
