Charlotte's eyes flickered, not blinking, barely breathing, pupils dilated like a woman staring down the edge of a revolution. She looked at Peter the way kingdoms once looked at fire, the way dying empires looked at messiahs.
"What do you want?" she repeated, softer this time. Not weak—never weak—but no longer bargaining from the throne. She was off it now, hands brushing the floor, dust from the real world clinging to her Versace.
Peter leaned back against the car door like he had all the time in the world. His mask tilted, mirroring a smirk that couldn't be seen but was felt—deep in the ego, deep in the soul.
"I want your fear," he said.
Charlotte blinked.
"I want your sleepless nights," Peter continued, voice low, surgical. "I want you to remember what it felt like when a kid in a hoodie ripped the laws of physics apart in your back seat. I want that feeling in your blood every time you walk into a boardroom thinking you've seen it all. Because you haven't. Not even close."
