The golden hour of seven o'clock arrived, and as the sprawling neon grid of Novus City began to pulsate with life, the atmosphere within the dressing suite of The Gilded Resort underwent a profound shift.
Allen Morgan stood before a floor-to-ceiling triptych mirror, his old self fading away with every button he fastened. He had traded the nondescript leisure suit for a bespoke, midnight-blue tuxedo crafted from Italian silk that seemed to absorb the ambient light. The transformation was startling. His hair, cut in a sharp, clean fade, framed features that possessed the architectural precision of a Renaissance sculpture. In the reflection, his eyes—usually shuttered and weary—now held the depth of a starless ocean, shimmering with a cold, distant intelligence. He looked less like a man and
