The afternoon sun hung heavy and oppressive over the Antique Market, filtering through the grime-streaked windows of the shop in dusty, sepic-toned shafts. Inside the cramped space, the air smelled of dry rot, ancient paper, and the sharp, metallic tang of impending violence. Preston York, known to the underworld as Lord York or the legendary Jade King, moved with a predator’s feline grace. He offered a flourish—an elegant, practiced turn—and hoisted himself onto the weathered wooden counter.
He sat there, legs crossed, peering down at Issac Monroe with a grin that didn't reach his eyes. The slit in Lord York's robe fell away, revealing the pale, sculpted lines of his legs, an intentional flash of skin meant to disarm and distract. It was a subtle, flickering temptation, the kind of lure
