Mirabel slipped into her private office, the heavy oak door shutting behind her with a resonant click—final, deliberate, like the closing of a vault. The air inside was cool and still, perfumed faintly with sandalwood and ambition. Velvet curtains framed the glittering cityscape beyond, its neon veins pulsing against the night. A marble desk dominated the room, strewn with classified files and half-burned candles, their wax pooling like quiet confessions.
She sank into her leather chair, the silence pressing in. For a long moment, she simply sat there, her fingers tracing the rim of a crystal tumbler before pouring herself a generous glass of aged scotch. The liquid caught the dim light, glinting like molten gold.
Her reflection shimmered in its surface—composed, elegant, but with eyes that betrayed the storm beneath. She took a slow sip, the burn grounding her.
