Thomas has probably lost his composure.
Not loudly. Men like him don't lose control by flipping tables or foaming at the mouth. They lose it by doing bad math too fast.
The Rank B aura behind me isn't only anger. It's compressed intent. The kind of pressure that says: if I settle this now, maybe I can scrub the room clean before it becomes a problem.
The bastard is shrewd.
If he kills me here, inside his own building, before I leave with the authorization, his odds of burying the evidence go up. An unknown visitor. A Crest that could be confiscated. A terrified Drowned with no credibility. Bought or frightened clerks. The Red Squid Slums has almost certainly swallowed crimes harder to digest than me.
But I didn't put my hand on that door handle unprepared.
I bring my hand to my ear in the same instant, before Thomas crosses the line between threat and act.
"Prince Veric Azurea, I wish you a good morning. I've got something here that needs your attention and your help."
