The Gold Access — as Phei had learned it was called — didn't just hand him a shiny card.
It handed him a different fucking elevator.
Not the cattle-car bank that ferried wage slaves and daylight visitors up and down during respectable hours.
No.
A private one. Glass on three sides. Tucked like a secret behind the lobby's east wall, behind a reader that blushed soft, obscene gold the instant his card brushed it.
The doors parted without so much as a sigh.
He stepped in.
Doors sealed. Gravity politely excused itself. The city dropped away like it knew better than to stay in his way.
Paradise at night sprawled beneath him — a glittering, shameless carpet of light.
Buildings burned gold and white, traffic slid in molten rivers down the boulevards, the twin spires of the Ashford Tower rose on either side like jealous parents as the elevator threaded the narrow gap between them.
