He knew the building before the Seraph's headlights even kissed the entrance.
The Void Towers.
Three obsidian spines thrusting up from the financial district's concrete heart like a trident driven through the city's chest—fifty stories each, linked at the crown by sky bridges that pulsed pale blue at night, turning the whole complex into something alive, something breathing, something that watched you back.
Two towers were offices for firms too powerful to need logos on the glass. The third was residential.
Units starting at seven million and climbing fast enough to make most people nauseous.
One of the most expensive addresses in Paradise outside Sovereign Tower itself.
And owned by the Ashfords. Of course. The name wasn't on the building. It didn't have to be.
Everyone who lived here knew whose gravity they orbited. Everyone who visited knew they'd been granted temporary parole from the rest of the world.
