Preston York was a master of the mask. In the ruthless corridors of the Northbank underground, showing your hand was a death sentence. Yet, despite the calculated poise she maintained as she adjusted the slit of her silk dress, Issac Monroe saw it. He saw the microscopic dilation of her pupils, the sharp, jagged intake of breath, and that unmistakable flicker of primal greed that lit up her eyes like a flare in the dark.
She didn't just recognize the Sanguine Stone; she craved it with a hunger that bordered on the spiritual.
The Jade King sat down across from Issac, her movements fluid and predatory. She crossed her long, shapely legs, the silk of her dress rustling with a sound like a warning. She leaned forward, a playful, practiced smirk returning to her lips.
"The light in here is s
