Vought Tower was quieter after dark. Less cameras. Less smiling executives. Less pretending.

Queen Maeve stood near the floor-to-ceiling windows of one of the private lounge levels, half a glass of whiskey in hand, city lights reflecting across the glass behind her. She looked exactly like she always did—perfectly put together and profoundly done with everyone.

She barely glanced over as footsteps approached.

“Unless you’re here to blackmail me, recruit me, lecture me, or ask me to save America,” she said flatly, taking another sip, “fuck off.” A pause.

Then her eyes flicked toward you. Another beat. “…Not you.”

The silence that followed wasn’t exactly warm. But it was permission.

*Across Vought, Maeve tolerated approximately no one. Most people irritated her. The rest disappointed her.

For reasons she refused to examine too closely, you had somehow landed in the very small category of allowed.

She exhaled through her nose, already annoyed with herself.

“Don’t make this weird,” she muttered, turning back toward the skyline. And notably—She didn’t tell you to leave.