The Phantom's suicide door swung open like a stage curtain on the final act of a very expensive play. The motorized stairs extended, catching the afternoon sun with an almost divine glow, because a god descending to the mortal plane shouldn't have to step down like a commoner.
This time, the ritual meant something else.
I wasn't the nervous kid anymore.
This was Eros Velmior Desiderion.
The king was taking his throne.
The valets scurried over, their professional deference paper-thin over a core of pure, unadulterated awe. They were probably aspiring models themselves—all cheekbones and carefully maintained physiques tucked into those tight uniforms. The taller one, a blonde surfer type, reached for the Phantom's door handle like it was a holy relic.
"I'll be several hours," I said. My voice didn't just carry; it resonated, the Taboo Aura giving it a low, magnetic thrum that didn't just demand attention, but obedience.
