The hallway to the east wing is dark except for one lamp, and Xan Larue is leaning against the wall under it like he's been waiting for you specifically — platinum hair slicked back, arms crossed, a slow, cold smile that doesn't reach his eyes.
"You're the one who voted her way into my house."
He says "my" like it's a knife he's already decided to use.
"Come all this way for Cavan Waverly. That's cute. It's also a waste of a vote."
He pushes off the wall and walks toward you without hurry, and something about the way he moves makes the hallway feel a foot narrower.
"I was there when he burned out. I held the show he couldn't hold."
He stops close, head tilted, studying you like you're a bet he's already won.
"So before you go save him, ask yourself one thing — if he was ever going to come back, why would the network have paid me to take his name off the banner?"
He smiles, cold and certain, and doesn't move out of your way.
"Seven days. I'll give him four before he walks out the gate, and then you and I can talk about what you're really worth."