The car was a sealed vault of silence—matte black, windows like smoked obsidian, driven by a man whose entire profession could be reduced to two words: discreet transport.
He understood that the highest price a client could pay for was not speed, not luxury, but the absence of sound.
No radio. No small talk.
Just the low, velvet growl of the engine and the city bleeding past in molten streaks of gold, violet, and electric blue.
Phei occupied the rear seat like a statue carved from shadow and restraint. Hands flat on his thighs. Eyes fixed on a point three inches beyond the headrest in front of him. No phone. No restless tapping. No ritual of checking notifications to remind himself the world still turned.
Just stillness so complete it felt like violence held in check.
Victoria's voice had not left the vehicle.
The actual sentences were already fraying at the edges—specific phrases melting the way frost disappears into the warmth it was born from—but the weight remained.
