The first thing Raven noticed about Zane’s world was the absence of masks. Not the literal kind, they still wore them at the gala-styled gatherings, still paraded around in decadence and tailored cruelty, but the performative polish of Club Eden was gone. Zane’s empire didn’t pretend to be a haven for pleasure. It didn’t offer silk and consent. It bled control, and the deeper Raven went, the harder it became to breathe.
The warehouse was nestled in an abandoned textile district on the edge of the river. Raven had arrived under the guise of a freelance logistics contractor, escorted by one of Zane’s lieutenants, Viktor, a man with eyes like broken glass and hands that never left the hem of his coat.
Inside, it was colder. Not just in temperature, though the air bit through her coat. It wa
