(Elena POV)
The night air in Astoria didn't feel like New York anymore.
It felt… calibrated.
Not cold. Not warm.
Measured.
Like the atmosphere itself had been adjusted to receive me.
I stepped out of the black executive sedan, the door closing behind me with a muted, decisive click that sounded less like an exit and more like a transition. The soles of my heels—the exact height, density, and weight distribution Maya Sterling favored—met the pavement with a precise, rhythmic cadence.
Not imitation.
Replication.
Refinement.
Each step landed cleanly, evenly spaced, the sound echoing just enough to mark presence without announcing intrusion. The red wool coat wrapped around me, its weight settling across my shoulders like something ceremonial—something earned.
Not clothing.
Authority.
I adjusted the sunglasses slowly, deliberately, even though the sun had long since disappeared beyond the skeletal horizon of steel and industry. The gesture wasn't functional.
