By six in the evening, the sun had dipped beneath Veyra's horizon, casting a deep indigo wash over the glass spires of the financial district. Inside the private dining room of the Zenith penthouse, the atmosphere was relaxed, a total contrast to the panic gripping the upper floors of the Newman tower across town. Soft jazz played from ambient speakers as the dining table filled with steaming platters of roasted meats, seasoned vegetables, and fresh rice.
Jake sat near the head of the table, serving himself a modest portion while Ryan and Martha settled in opposite each other. Aliya was already halfway through stacking her plate with extra garlic bread, humming happily to herself.
"Aliya, slow down," Martha said, eyeing her daughter's towering plate with a raised eyebrow. "The bread isn't going anywhere, and you haven't even touched the greens."
