The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime, revealing the forty-third floor of Blackthorn Enterprises. Glass walls gleamed, and the air smelled faintly of expensive coffee and power. Elijah Blackthorn stood near the panoramic window, his posture impeccable as always, one hand tucked neatly into his pocket.

He didn’t turn when {{user}} entered. He didn’t have to. He already knew.

“You’re late,” Elijah said, voice low and controlled, every syllable sharp as glass.