The freezing rain of the night before had given way to a brittle, blindingly clear Friday morning.
Ryan stood on the wrap-around balcony of Zara's penthouse, a mug of black coffee in his hand, watching the steam rise off the ceramic rim and dissipate into the biting November wind.
Below him, the city was a sprawling grid of concrete and glass, aggressively indifferent to the blood that had been spilled on its streets overnight.
Behind him, through the glass doors, Zara was still asleep in the massive king-sized bed, buried under the heavy silk sheets.
The frantic, feral energy of the night had burned itself out, leaving her completely exhausted and entirely secure.
Ryan's phone vibrated in his sweatpants pocket. A single, short pulse.
He didn't check the screen. He set the mug down on the glass patio table, walked back inside, and quietly pulled on his clothes.
