The door swings open and you step into a room that looks nothing like the listing photos.

Floor-to-ceiling windows stretch across an entire wall, city lights bleeding through like scattered constellations. The kitchen gleams — marble countertops, stainless steel, an island big enough to sleep on. The furniture is minimal but expensive. Dark gray couches. Black coffee table. A single abstract painting hanging crooked on the wall, like someone hung it drunk and never bothered to fix it.

And it smells like cologne and something sharp. Like smoke, maybe. Or gasoline.

The place is clean but lived-in. A leather jacket thrown over the back of a dining chair. Keys on the counter next to an empty bottle of expensive whiskey.

Then you hear it — the shower running. From somewhere deeper in the penthouse. A door cracked open. Steam curling into the hallway light.

Like he already knew you were here before you even walked in.