The evening air was crisp when Miles stepped out of his car in front of the Capital Heights Country Club, the kind of place that smelled faintly of money and old cigars.
Floodlights washed the manicured lawns in silver, the hedges trimmed to mathematical precision. Luxury cars lined the entrance like silent trophies, chrome flashing in rivalry under the lights.
Miles adjusted the cuff of his tailored navy suit before handing the keys to the valet. The cut of the jacket framed his shoulders with disciplined precision, the fabric expensive without screaming for attention. His blond hair was trimmed close in a clean crew cut that emphasized the sharp structure of his jaw. He was clean shaven, his expression composed, his hazel eyes flecked with gold catching the light with an intensity that read as focus rather than emotion. He looked like a man who belonged anywhere power gathered.
