Sienna
The lock gave way with a satisfying click, and I pushed the door open with a slow exhale. Dante's mansion wasn't just security-tight, it was paranoia on display. Reinforced steel hinges, dual-layered deadbolts, and a custom security panel he probably coded himself. But paranoia had a flaw: it got cocky. It convinced people they were untouchable. It made them build systems they thought no one else could read.
I slipped inside, careful not to grab attention in case he had detectors around. The glow from the city skyline filtered through the curtains, bathing the living room in gray-blue shadows. The place felt too still, too controlled, like even the air had been arranged with intent. I kept low, making my way past the kitchen and into his office, where I knew he kept the things he didn't want anyone to see.
I didn't come here for adrenaline or the thrill of breaking and entering.
I came for proof.
