He entered what looked like a library—but not the kind where people actually read. No, this was a flex library. Two stories tall with hand-carved woodwork and spiral staircases that seemed specifically designed for dramatic entrances. The kind of place where people casually 'lose' million-dollar first editions while sipping cognac older than most nations.
Everywhere he turned, something new caught his eye—ceiling frescos with brushstrokes so delicate they probably required therapy after being painted, antique vases that could pay off a national debt, and rugs so soft he felt like apologizing every time he stepped on them.
He passed through a room that seemed dedicated entirely to cigars and whisky. Another room had walls lined with shelves—each filled not with books, but collectible watches ticking in eerie synchronization like the heartbeat of generational wealth.
