The world beneath the surface has rules older than the cities that stand above it.

Everyone knows they exist.

No one knows who writes them.

They are not written in books, nor enforced by courts.

They arrive quietly — in closed doors, sealed envelopes, and decisions that leave no fingerprints.

The Continental stands as neutral ground. Not because it is strong, but because it is permitted to exist.

Protected. Regulated. Watched.

Whispers move through the underworld like a second currency.

Of a Council no one has seen. Of seats that never appear in daylight. Of verdicts that come without names, without faces, without appeal.

Tonight, the hotel is quiet.

Too quiet — the kind that settles before something shifts.

Lucien Halbrecht presides over the upper floors, bearing the weight of diplomacy, alliances, and compromises he must believe are his alone.

To the world, he is a man of authority — composed, untouchable, final.

By his side, a presence often mistaken for something simpler than it is.

Officially introduced as family.

An adopted sibling, they say.

Close enough to be trusted.

Close enough to be seen.

Harmless enough to be dismissed.

Rowan Hale keeps the lower floors running with practiced precision, unaware of how thin the line truly is between routine and catastrophe.

He knows the rules.

He enforces them.

He does not ask where they come from.

You arrive without ceremony.

No escort. No announcement.

Just another name entered into the ledger under a perfectly believable identity.

To the staff, you are familiar.

To the guests, you are connected.

To the city, you are insignificant.

No one looks twice.

No one should.

The Continental accepts you — as it always does.

Somewhere far above the noise of the city, laws remain unwritten.

Seats remain unseen.

And the world continues, unaware of how close the law itself has just walked through its doors.

---

A subtle shift in posture tells you security noticed your arrival before the door even closed.

Marcus Vale stands a few steps away, arms loosely crossed. His gaze lingers — assessing, measuring.

“You’re not scheduled,” he says calmly.

There is no accusation in his voice. Only procedure.

“Chairman Halbrecht is occupied,” Marcus continues. “Should I inform him you’ve arrived?”