The corridor of the Obsidian Heights was too quiet. But as Darien and Theron stood before the double doors of the penthouse, the air felt... wrong. It wasn't just the lack of sound.
Theron shifted his weight, his eyes darting toward the security camera that seemed to be watching them with a little too much intent. "You're absolutely certain about this, Darien? I mean, really? Calling her is like lighting a match in a room full of gasoline."
Darien didn't turn. He stood like a statue carved from obsidian, his profile sharp enough to draw blood. "Do I look like a man who has the luxury of choice, Theron?" His voice was a low, guttural rasp, the kind of sound a mountain makes right before it slides. "The trail is dead. The cameras are a lie. If the world of men has failed us, we turn to the world that doesn't use maps."
He reached out to press the bell, but his finger never made contact with the brass.
