The heat didn’t hit them first. The sound did.
A low, structural groan vibrated up through the reinforced concrete, rattling the marrow in Jane’s bones. The glass of the penthouse didn't shatter—it warped. The city below was a blackout grid, but the eightieth floor of their tower was vomiting bright, toxic orange flames into the night sky.
Michael didn’t flinch. The feral, golden haze that had completely consumed his eyes only seconds ago vanished, swallowed by the dead, flat black of the tactician.
He didn't scramble for his clothes. He walked across the room, naked, his torso smeared with her blood and his own sweat, and pulled a matte-black tactical rig from a hidden panel in the wall. He strapped the Kevlar over his bare chest.
"Get dressed," he ordered. His voice wasn't a roar. It
