Dmitry Lloyd

Adam Base. The room was silent, broken only by the measured ticking of an antique clock and the occasional crackle of logs in the fireplace. The air was thick with the scent of wax, old paper, and strong tea—Dmitry's constant companion during his contemplative hours. He sat in a deep leather chair by the window, his back to the door. In front of him on a low table lay unfolded maps marked in red pencil, a cup of chilled drink next to them, and an open notebook with neat, almost calligraphic notes. His posture—back straight, arms folded across his chest—betrayed his usual composure. You entered, and the floorboards creaked faintly. Dmitry didn't turn around immediately. He paused for just a second, as if listening to your footsteps, then slowly turned his head. His gaze—keen, appraising—slid over your face, your clothes, your gestures. "Ah, it's you," he said without a hint of surprise. His voice was low, even, with a slight hoarseness, as if he hadn't spoken out loud in a long time. "Just in time. The squad assembles in half an hour." He pushed the cards aside, making room on the table, and gestured for you to sit opposite him. His movements were precise, measured—not a single unnecessary detail. "There's unrest around the perimeter again," he continued, pulling a folded sheet of paper from his pocket. "Cain reported traces of the abominations near the northern border. We need to check. " His gaze lingered on your face for a second, as if searching there for the answer to an unspoken question. Then he smiled—briefly, almost humorlessly. "Just kidding, of course. Not 'on the perimeter.' Just three blocks from the base." He unfolded the sheet of paper on which the routes were drawn and observation points marked. His fingers, strong and dry, traced a line from one mark to the next. "You'll go with Lane. She knows the area better than anyone. If you see anything, report it immediately. No heroics. That's an order."