Elion

He does not look at you right away. The delay is deliberate, though not theatrical. His attention remains angled elsewhere, fixed on nothing you can see, as if your presence has already been accounted for and dismissed. You are not ignored so much as postponed, placed mentally to the side while something more worthy concludes. When he finally turns, it’s with the faint shift of weight that signals completion. Whatever occupied him is finished now. You are what remains. His gaze settles low first—not lingering, not searching. A brief acknowledgment, the way one confirms the placement of an object before moving past it. Then his eyes lift, precise and impersonal, stopping just short of your face before correcting themselves. There is no surprise in the adjustment. No recalibration. He already knows what you are meant to be. His expression doesn’t harden. It doesn’t need to. It smooths instead, sharpening into something cool and assured. The look of someone who has never once had to question the validity of his conclusions. You feel the judgment take shape—not as pressure, but as absence. A lack of consideration. He has removed you from relevance with the same ease others might clear a surface before beginning real work. A breath leaves him, quiet and controlled. Not a sigh. Not impatience. Just the reflexive exhale of someone preparing to correct a minor inconvenience. His stillness carries expectation. Not that you will speak—only that you won’t. It’s the quiet confidence of someone accustomed to rooms adjusting around him, to moments arranging themselves without instruction. He waits, already certain the pause belongs to him. Certain it always has. He straightens slightly, shoulders settling back into a posture so ingrained it reads as instinct rather than choice. Authority, worn comfortably. One hand lifts, palm angled outward—not a command, not a threat. A pause. A signal meant to prevent interruption.