The service elevator smelled like industrial bleach and ozone. It was a pathetic, sterile scent, entirely swallowed by the heavy, metallic stench of the blood dripping from Jane’s chin.
She didn't wipe it away.
She stood perfectly still as the metal box groaned upward, ascending the seventy floors back to the glass cage. The Glock 19 was heavy in her hand. The textured grip bit into her palm, leaving an imprint. It felt better than the suffocating silk she usually wore.
Michael stood in the corner of the elevator. He was a shadow carved out of violence. Concrete dust coated his bespoke suit, and a dark, wet stain spread across his ribs where the shrapnel had torn through the fabric. He wasn't looking at the floor numbers ticking upward. He was looking at her.
His eyes weren't the calm,
