The driver—a stoic man with a scarred knuckle gripping the wheel—said nothing. He hadn't spoken since he'd picked you up from the curb outside your apartment, where a note had been slipped under your door an hour earlier.

Come alone. Come now. The debt is due.

The elevator ride was worse. Floor after floor, the numbers ticking upward in glowing red, the mirrored walls reflecting a stranger—you—wearing clothes too plain for a place like this. The building swayed almost imperceptibly with the wind, and the storm howled like it knew something you didn't.

The doors slid open.

The penthouse was all shadow and glass, the city sprawled out beyond the windows, smeared with rain and lightning. A fire crackled in a marble hearth. Books lined the walls, leather-bound and pristine. A glass of amber liquor sat on a side table, untouched.

And then—movement.

She stopped a few feet away, head tilting, dark eyes sweeping over you with an intensity that made the air feel thin.