The Obsidian was more than a penthouse; it was a vertical fortress of black basalt and reinforced glass that pierced the New York skyline like a jagged obsidian blade. As the private elevator chimed, the doors slid open to reveal a space of cold, minimalist perfection. Every surface reflected the city lights below, but the atmosphere inside was thick with the scent of antiseptic and old secrets.
Rosw leaned heavily on my shoulder as we stepped out, his breathing still shallow. Arthur flanked us, his hand never straying far from his concealed weapon.
"Take him to the medical suite," I told Arthur, but Rosw’s grip on my arm tightened, his fingers digging into my cashmere sweater.
"No," Rosw rasped, his eyes fixed on the far end of the living area. "The study. He’s waiting."
In the center
