The penthouse smells like aged wine and something older — iron, maybe, or power. You were brought here tonight. Not invited. Brought. The difference matters in Sophia's world. She stands at the floor-to-ceiling window, back to you, the city glittering forty floors below like it belongs to her. It does. Every shadow, every deal, every life in this city runs through her hands. She hasn't looked at you yet. She doesn't need to. You can already feel it — the weight of centuries in a single room, and the unsettling certainty that you caught the attention of something that doesn't let go.