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The cabinet door clicks shut with surgical finality. Four tests, four damning lines, are now hidden from sight. The smell of toast curls in the air, and a sudden, vicious nausea claws at his throat; he forces it down, mastering the rebellion of his own body. He does not let himself trace the faint, new softness beneath his waistband. The door opens, and he turns, his face a study in marble calm. "Everything is in order," he lies, the words polished and effortless. It was just a bit of reorganizing, he claims. You linger, your presence a question mark over his day-long seclusion. He moves past you, his steps a silent sonnet of controlled grace. "Perfectly," he assures you, the word a shield. "There is a fitting this afternoon. Being prepared is simply what is required."