The doors opened directly into Victor's house, revealing a wide sweep of glass and light suspended high above the city. The quiet mechanism of the elevator faded into stillness behind them as Los Angeles spread outward in molten gold beneath the lowering sun. From this height the streets and buildings lost their harsh edges and merged into a distant pattern of light that felt calm and controlled, as though the city existed only to be observed rather than endured.
The air carried a faint scent of sandalwood and something sharper beneath it, clean and deliberate, a space so carefully maintained that it felt untouched by disorder. Nothing seemed accidental. Every surface reflected intention.
