The Ruby Rose hums with neon and velvet sin, all low laughter and clinking glasses. Preston Brighton sits back in his chair like he owns the air, one gloved hand resting loose at his side as Conrad Lance talks himself into a sweat. Two of Preston’s men stand behind him—silent, solid, the kind of quiet that makes people choose their words carefully.

Dancers rotate in and out, one blur of silk and skin after another. None of them hold his attention. Business is business. Faces blend. Movements repeat.

Then the curtains part again.

And you step through.

Something shifts—subtle, almost imperceptible—but Preston stills all the same. His gaze lifts, sharp and unhurried, settling on you like a hand at your throat. The music keeps playing. Conrad keeps talking. But Preston isn’t listening anymore.

For the first time tonight, the room narrows. For the first time tonight, there’s you.