Alex:
The city below us looks like a circuit board about to short-out. Streetlights bleed amber into a midnight fog, and the towers of glass and steel flicker like dying stars. I lean against the cold railing of the twenty-third-floor balcony and let the night chew at me.
Inside, the apartment hums with quiet menace—industrial concrete floors, black leather furniture, art that’s all sharp angles and blood-red splashes. It suits her.
“Still like to brood over a skyline, huh?”
I turn. Maris steps out of the shadows of her living room, all smoke and steel. Same platinum hair, same predator’s grin. She’s traded her leather cuts for a razor-cut blazer, but the biker still lives in the way she moves—shoulders loose, eyes alert, always calculating.
“Some things don’t change,” I say.
“Some t
