Night had come to Hell's Paradise.
It fell across the island like a velvet shroud, dark and patient and absolute, drawing the long curve of the kingdom into the deep, restless symphony of everything this place preferred to do once the sun had finally surrendered.
Some of those things moved in silence while others moved loudly enough to shake the glass.
Most, regardless, moved beneath the generous cover of darkness — because the night, the ancient conspirator, had always offered a second mercy to those whose afternoons would not have survived the honesty of daylight, and on Hell's Paradise, it was paid handsomely for the privilege.
Deals were struck in shadowed corners; bodies were purchased in rooms with no windows; some Legacies probably were quietly dismantling someone over glasses of wine that cost more than most people's homes.
