The facade of the Dwentreen Hotel loomed over the elite commercial district of Freenly City like a colossal monument to old-money decadence and high-society arrogance. Its massive, neo-gothic limestone arches were illuminated by thousands of recessed gold LED lights, casting a warm, predatory glow over the fleet of multi-million-dollar luxury towncars and armored limousines idling along the sweeping, heated marble driveway. White-gloved valets moved with rhythmic, high-protocol precision, opening doors for the wealthiest Alphas, Betas, and Omegas in the entire eastern sector.
Stepping out of the rear of an armored Deviloy executive sedan, Malcolm Ford felt a wave of immediate, violent irritation crash against his central nervous system.
