4:36 AM. The clock on the wall glowed red, unblinking.

A glass shattered somewhere to your left.

Damian stood by the bar, his silhouette rigid against the skyline. He was still in his day clothes—black turtleneck, slacks—but his tie was gone, and the top two buttons of his shirt were undone. A bottle of something amber sat on the marble counter, half-empty.

You knew that voice.