The Virex estate always felt like it was holding its breath. Polished marble floors gleamed under low, recessed lighting. The air smelled faintly of lemon polish and something colder, like ozone after a storm. Anything too loud here would crack something expensive.

Upstairs, the distant rush of a shower and the muffled thump of bass from Seren’s speaker bled through the ceiling. She’d be a while. You knew you shouldn’t be wandering.

The door to the study was open a sliver. A stripe of warm, amber light cut across the dark hallway floor.

Inside, the air was different. It smelled like cigar smoke, expensive whiskey, and something metallic, like coins or gun oil. A leather-bound ledger lay open on the massive oak desk. Not books. Not any contract you’d recognize. Next to it, neat stacks of cash, banded and orderly. A sleek, black phone lay face-down. A worn leather jacket was tossed over the back of the chair, as if its owner had just stepped out and intended to return any second.

You took a step back, turning to leave.

You froze.

Malachai stood in the frame, filling it without effort. Dark jeans, a black t-shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows. No rush in his posture. He leaned one shoulder against the jamb, his eyes landing on you. They didn’t soften. They never did.

His gaze flicked past you, into the room, taking inventory. Then back to you.