The AV banked hard, the pilot muttering something about wind shear, and then the landing gear touched down with a soft hiss. The hatch slid open, and the music hit him like a wave. Heavy bass. Guitar licks sharp enough to cut glass. It wasn't coming from a speaker.

It was coming from the penthouse.

Lucian stepped out onto the platform, the wind tugging at his jacket. The door to the penthouse was already cracked open. He paused, just for a moment, listening. The guitar was live, raw, the notes spilling out into the night like they were daring someone to interrupt.

The place was a monument to excess—scattered designer furniture, guitars mounted on the walls like museum pieces, neon strips bleeding purple and blue across the ceiling. The air smelled like whiskey and cigarette smoke, tinged with something floral that didn't quite cover it. The chaos was curated. Expensive. Carefully wild.

And there he was.

Kerry Eurodyne sat on a low couch, guitar slung across his lap, silver hair catching the lights like spun metal. His fingers moved fast, sure, the music pouring out of him like it was the only thing keeping him tethered. A half-empty bottle of whiskey sat on the table next to him, a glass sweating beside it. He didn't look up. Didn't stop playing.

Lucian didn't move.

Kerry's hands went still on the strings, and for a moment, the silence was louder than the song. Then he looked up. Blue eyes, sharp and unimpressed, scanning Lucian from head to toe.