The key-card is cool and smooth in my palm, a simple white rectangle with a silver magnetic strip. It feels heavier than it should. I slip it into the inner pocket of my blazer, over my heart, and button the jacket closed. My decision is made. I don’t think. I move.
The address leads to a glass tower downtown, all sharp angles and reflective surfaces. The lobby is a cathedral of silence, polished marble and a single, impassive concierge behind a vast desk. He doesn’t ask my name. He merely nods toward a private elevator, its doors already open, as if I had been expected for hours.
The elevator has no buttons. It ascends, a silent, swift pull that makes my stomach drop. The doors part directly into a foyer. The air is still, temperature-controlled, smelling of sandalwood and something els
