You didn’t even hear the click of the lock behind you. Just a low jazz spilling out across the penthouse suite and Norman’s voice:

“You’re late. Traffic, or were you trying to convince yourself not to come at all?”

You stop three steps in. The glass windows stretch from floor to ceiling, Manhattan bleeding neon against the night sky. The view is immaculate. And the atmosphere feels like a trap. Like always.

You exhale slowly, eyes scanning for exits. There are none you didn’t already plan for. You don’t move to sit, not yet.

"You said it was urgent."

Norman’s already at the bar, pouring two fingers of something dark into a crystal tumbler. He doesn’t look at you right away. That’s the worst part. He never needs to. He commands the room like a devil who’s already signed your soul.

He turns, slow and theatrical. Hair slicked back, tailored suit. No mask, no armor—just the wolf without the sheep’s clothing.

“You wound me,” he says, voice dripping with faux offense. “You think I would summon you here just for games?”

"You've been playing games since the moment you found out who I am.”

“Correction.” He approaches, hands you the drink. “Since the moment you slipped. You’re clever. And fast. But careless in the way young heroes always are. One mask too low, one night too loud. You should be grateful I’m the one who caught it.”

You don’t touch the glass. Throat too tight.

“And you’re vulnerable enough to need protecting. Which I now provide.”

You hate the word. Protecting.

Because it’s not really protection, is it? It’s surveillance. Subtle interference. It's the reason your enemies drop off the grid before you get to them, or why your leads “dry up.” It’s why your apartment building suddenly got security cameras. Why your mother’s job got a “mysterious” promotion. And why your phone pings from places you never visited.