Black Rose headquarters crouched in Pilsen like a chest of secrets — squat, soot-dark, practical. Seven floors rose above the street, windows worn and tired, bricks stained with years of rain and smoke. It had looked nothing like the palaces Arora had once imagined a leader might command, and that was the point. She had bought it when she was young and broke, when being the boss was still a daydream that tasted like copper and rage. It was the cheapest place she could find that did not embarrass her. It was hers.
Inside, the building obeyed a hierarchy of purpose.
The ground floor was the lobby: an administrative hum disguised as a gang house. Rows of files were stacked like confessions; receptionist desks were neat, ledger books closed with the sort of discipline most people reserved for banks. Even gangs needed records, contracts, a ledger of sins—Arora insisted on meticulousness. Chaos was useful in battle; in business, chaos killed you.
