A man was sitting in front of her, his eyes fixed on her.
There was nothing menacing about his face. His expression was calm, almost unreadable. Yet his gaze never shifted, never softened. It was the kind of look that made your skin crawl, the kind that triggered a deep instinct: a calm voice whispering, " Something's wrong."
Claire looked away, telling herself not to think about it too much. Maybe he was lost in thought. Maybe he wasn't even looking at her. But every time she dared to glance at her again, his eyes were there, steady and impassive.
The discomfort in his chest grew heavier with each passing minute.
