LYRA
Orion arrived like he always did, instantly commanding the room with an energy that suggested he found the world fascinating and was ready to dive in headfirst. The penthouse doors swung open at precisely seven forty-three in the morning. He strolled in, jacket slung over one shoulder, a coffee already in hand, clearly snagged somewhere between the tarmac and this fortieth-floor perch. His expression was that of a man who had slept on a plane and considered it perfectly adequate.
He paused in the center of the living room, his gaze sweeping from the ceiling to the windows, then down at the sprawling city below. Taking in the sheer scale of it all, he finally spoke. "Zeviar," he drawled.
"Morning," Zeviar replied from the kitchen, not bothering to look up.
"This is obscene."
"You'
