PREVIEW

... Unregistered Airspace.

The city didn't sleep.

It watched.

From the penthouse's razor-glass windows, the skyline looked like a symphony of knives—jagged silhouettes slicing through low-hanging fog, neon pulsing like blood through veins.

Inside, the room was still. Velvet silence, broken only by the soft hiss of steam rising from a glass of untouched whiskey.

A half-buttoned shirt hung loose over a chiseled chest, muscles taut with the quiet promise of viol ...

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