The old opera house loomed like a forgotten ruin against the skyline, grand yet crumbling, with ivy clawing at its marble bones and iron gates left ajar like the yawning mouth of something ancient. Aurora Sage stood just beyond the threshold, her silhouette framed by the dust-choked light that filtered in through shattered stained glass.
She hadn't followed Reed Montclair's instructions to the letter.
She'd brought a knife.
Small. Concealed. But hers.
There was no such thing as neutral ground in her world. Only fools believed in safety. And she'd stopped being a fool a long time ago.
Her steps echoed as she descended the ornate staircase, boots hitting faded crimson carpet, every muscle taut with silent readiness. The scent of mildew and decayed opulence filled the air. Broken chandeliers. Faded velvet. Ghosts of an audience that once applauded arias and now heard the orchestration of threat.
She paused in the center of the hall.
