December presses against the glass like a held breath.
From the forty-seventh floor, the city looks deceptively calm—streets dusted with snow, headlights threading clean lines through the dark. It should soothe me. It doesn’t. I’ve spent my life believing altitude buys clarity. Tonight it only sharpens the drop.
Luna stands at the window, arms crossed, reflection cut into a thousand fragments by the panes. She’s quiet in that dangerous way—thinking, mapping, refusing to say what might break us if spoken too soon. Her hair is still damp from the sleet outside. She smells like cold air and metal and something wild I’ve never been able to contain.
“We’re running out of time,” she says without turning. “Whatever they’re planning—it’s already moving.”
I nod, because denying it would be an i
