Instead of a dark place or a desolate forest, we pass through an impeccably curated estate gate without the guards so much as glancing at the car's plates.
The driver brings the luxury sedan to a smooth stop in front of a modern storey building that seems to claw at the sky.
"Mr. Banks said to reach out to this person," the driver says, passing me a card with an industrial-looking logo.
I take it absent-mindedly, my mind refusing to process the card because it is too busy admiring the view before me.
I am gawking. My jaw is literally hanging open.
I’ve seen luxury.
I’ve been in Banks’s high-rise penthouse. But his place feels like a mansion—established, rich, and modern.
This place... this is a skyscraper of pure glass, steel, and arrogant, modern architecture.
It looks less like
