Last night —
The 49th floor exists in a pocket of silence so complete it feels suspended outside of time itself.
Inside the VIP suite, the silence is heavier—more intimate, more charged. Clothes lie scattered across the floor in careless abandon: Ellis's shirt, stripped and discarded in haste, his trousers pooled beside the ornate bed, belts and garters strewn across the marble in the quiet aftermath of the night.
The air is thick and languid, still carrying the weight of what happened here—the memory of heat, hunger, and surrender lingering in every shadow.
On the bed, Ellis and Silas lie tangled together, bare skin against bare skin, their bodies still slick with the evidence of the night. Sweat glistens on pale skin, catching the dim light in a soft, intimate sheen that traces the contours of muscle and bone like liquid silver.
Ellis's head rests on Silas's arm, his face peaceful in unconsciousness, his breathing slow and steady. He looks almost untouched—
