The restaurant reeked of old money and the kind of quiet power that could buy small countries and still complain about the service.
Michelin stars weren't awards here—they were the atmosphere, invisible crowns dangling over every table like judgmental ghosts. Crystal chandeliers bled soft golden light onto linens so expensive they probably had trust funds.
Waiters ghosted between patrons in tailored black—there when you snapped your fingers, gone before you could say "thank you," because gratitude was for peasants.
Senithe claimed the corner booth, back to the wall—pure habit, the kind that keeps you alive when your job description includes occasional gods assassination.
Dark Regent sprawled opposite, long fingers wrapped around a whiskey he hadn't touched in thirty minutes. Their conversation was surgical: clipped, low, the sort of plotting that redrew borders and drained offshore accounts without anyone raising their voice above a bored whisper.
