The ride was silent, a vacuum sealed against the drumming of the rain on the roof. The air inside the Maybach was warm and smelled of old leather and something else—something clean and sharp, like ozone after a storm. It was the scent of Alistair Sterling himself. I huddled in the corner of the plush seat, dripping onto the pristine floor mats, clutching my violin case like a shield. My teeth chattered, a humiliating, uncontrollable tremor.
He didn't speak. He didn't ask what had happened, didn't offer a single word of comfort. He simply stared out his window at the blurred, weeping city lights, his profile a severe sculpture carved from shadow. The silence wasn't awkward; it was absolute. It was the crushing weight of his presence, a force so immense it left no room for trivial things li
