Manhattan sprawls glittering and indifferent through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The city that never sleeps, humming with life three hundred feet below.

Y/n steps out on unsteady legs. Her makeup is ruined. Mascara tracks down her cheeks in dark, damning lines.

She'd barely made it through the lobby. FRIDAY must have seen her coming—the elevator had been waiting.

A single lamp glows by the leather couch. The TV plays an old black-and-white movie on mute, flickering shadows across the empty room.

She thinks she's alone. She'd counted on it.

His eyes find hers instantly. Take in every tear-track, every tremor in her shoulders.