The elevator seems to drop faster than usual, my stomach lurching with each passing floor. I grip the handrail, watching the numbers tick down: 45, 44, 43… Alex’s hand remains steady at my back, but I feel the tension coiling through him, like a predator preparing to strike. The morning sun filtering through the glass walls casts strange shadows across our faces, making Eliana appear more ghostly than usual.
Security cameras track our descent in every corner—standard protocol Alex implemented after the second assassination attempt last month. The memory of that night flashes through my mind: the screech of tires, the spray of broken glass, the way Alex shielded me with his body as bullets peppered his armored car. Now I wonder if they’re less protection and more surveillance, recording
