The city was a grid of cold blue light outside the floor-to-ceiling windows. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of vetiver and unspoken contracts. This wasn't a scene; it was a negotiation.
Tarra lit a cigarette, the flare illuminating the sweat on her collarbone. She didn鈥檛 look at Nessa. She looked at her own reflection in the black window.
In the ATIC aesthetic, chaos is never random. It is orchestrated. Tarra moved first, a director stepping into her own frame. She approached Nessa, not with aggression, but with a surgeon鈥檚 precision. She cupped Nessa鈥檚 jaw, tilting her face toward the main light source. 鈥淲atch,鈥� Tarra whispered. Nessa鈥檚 breath hitched鈥攏ot from fear, but from the thrill of being rendered secondary.
Tarra exhaled smoke. 鈥淒on鈥檛 be late.鈥�
