Meanwhile at SHQ, the double doors of the main chamber clicked shut behind Harold Barclay, their heavy brass fixtures muffling the echoes of murmured voices within.
Barclay didn't look back. His steps were paced as he moved down the wide hallway, its polished floors reflecting the overhead lighting in muted waves.
On either side of the corridor stood stone effigies of former Directors and celebrated heroes, a silent, unmoving audience carved from granite and pride. Portraits of those who'd shaped the city's heroic legacy lined the walls, painted with an artistry that turned each face into a myth.
Their gazes followed Harold Barclay as he walked, each step a reminder that no one stayed untouchable forever.
He stopped midway between two statues, the one on his left depicting Aegis Valor in his ceremonial armor, the right a young heroine who'd died on a crucial mission. He ignored them both, reaching into his blazer to pull out a folded cloth. His palm was damp.
