The rain over Corban had turned to needles of black ice.
Luca stood alone on the roof of the old opera house, collar turned up against the wind, the obsidian signet ring burning a perfect circle into his palm. Below him, the marquee still read LA TRAVIATA – CANCELLED, letters flickering between gold and green as Agnetha's wards rewrote reality one bulb at a time.
He had not come to end it. He had come to double it.
Footsteps ascended the iron staircase behind him: measured, deliberate, the click of heels that cost more than most people's houses. Agnetha emerged from the darkness wrapped in a coat of living flame that didn't burn the rain, only turned it to steam.
“You're early," she said, voice warm as a branding iron. “Punctuality. How refreshing."
Luca didn't turn. “I want a new dea
