Marcus’s message sits on my phone like a ticking clock.
You’re running out of time.
The city stretches endlessly beneath the terrace, but suddenly New York feels smaller. Closer. Like the walls of the night are slowly tightening around us.
Adrian reads the message over my shoulder. His expression doesn’t change. But something colder settles into his eyes.
“Good,” he says quietly.
I blink. “That’s good?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“Because Marcus only sends messages like that when he thinks he’s winning.”
“And that’s good?”
“It means he’s confident.”
“That still doesn’t sound good.”
Adrian turns toward the glass doors leading back into the penthouse. “Confident opponents make mistakes.”
He walks inside.
I follow, the tension from the terrace still humming through my chest.
Adrian moves st
