The smell of wet concrete and decaying wood was the only thing Caleb could call home.
He stood in the center of the skeletal ballroom, his fingers stained with graphite, holding a blueprint that felt more like a map to a grave. For the world, he was a ghost. For the elite, he was the invisible hand that built their dreams. But for himself, he was just a man trying to outrun the echoes of a falling building.
The silence was broken by the sharp, rhythmic click-clack of expensive heels against the rotting floorboards. Caleb didn't turn. He didn't need to. The scent of French perfume—something floral but dangerous—cut through the stagnant air like a knife.
"I was told the 'Ghost' lived in shadows, but this? This is just depressing," a voice echoed. It was smooth, arrogant, and dripping with a defiance that Caleb hadn't felt in years.
He finally turned. Sloane was standing there, her silhouette framed by the dying light of the afternoon sun. She looked like a diamond dropped into a coal mine. Her eyes, sharp and calculating, swept over the ruins before landing on him.
"This building isn't a project, Miss Thorne," Caleb said, his voice raspy from disuse. "It's a corpse. And I don't perform resurrections."
Sloane took a step forward, her heels sinking slightly into the soft wood. She didn't flinch. "I don't need a resurrection, Caleb. I need a revolution. And you're the only one who knows where the foundations are buried."
She stopped just inches away from him. The tension was so thick it felt like a physical wall between them. Caleb could see the pulse in her neck, the fire in her gaze. He wanted to push her away, to protect the secrets hidden beneath the floorboards, but for the first time in years, his hands trembled.
"You don't know what you're asking for," he whispered.
"I know exactly what I want," she countered, leaning in until he could feel the warmth of her breath. "The question is, are you brave enough to build it with me?"