The penthouse was saved for the low, rhythmic hum of the city's power grid vibrating through the floors. Outside, the city was a mix of electric blue and neon violet, the veins of the metropolis pulsing with so much energy. From this height, the people below were merely specks of light, pretty insignificant.
Theron stood by the floor-to-ceiling glass, his posture as rigid as the steel beams holding up the tower. In his right hand, he held a crystal glass of amber liquid, the ice long since melted into the gold.
Beside him, Belica leaned against the railing of the interior balcony, her sheer violet robe fluttering in the subtle, chilled draft of the climate control. She looked like a relic of a lost era, beautiful, eternal, and hauntingly familiar. She didn't look like a woman who had just been ordered to leave; she looked like a queen reclaiming a throne she had never truly abdicated.
