I left. Closed the door behind me with a soft click that felt far too final.
The elevator carried me down to the lobby in silence, save for the quiet hum of expensive machinery. Each descending floor felt like a countdown. A car waited outside—black, sleek, expensive in that understated way that screamed "someone important sits here." Tinted windows reflected the building's exterior lighting back at me.
The driver, a man in his fifties with the posture of ex-military, held the door open with practiced efficiency.
"Mr. Nakano. La Luna Rossa."
I climbed in. The interior smelled like leather and subtle cologne.
