The city has settled into its late-night rhythm—quiet, obedient, efficient.
From the outside, it looks peaceful.
From where I stand, it looks exposed.
I've been reviewing reports without reading them, eyes skimming lines my mind refuses to absorb. My jacket is off. Tie loosened. Sleeves rolled. The faint pull along my ribs reminds me I pushed harder than Kassel approved of.
"Bro, are you not going home?" Cameron says, leaning against the glass wall with a coffee he doesn't need. "It's one a.m. Ever since you stopped being with Isabella, you've basically turned the office into your new home."
"I'm busy," I reply, eyes on the city below. The lights stretch endlessly, impersonal and awake, like me.
"And I'm the Queen of England," he snorts. "There's a party in Amsterdam. Wanna come with me? Fresh air. Let yourself loose. Touch grass."
I glance at him. Flat. Warning.
"Do you want me to throw you out? You're starting to sound like a mosquito."
"Ouch—"
Ring. Ring.
