The one that tells every supernatural creature in this building that I'm under the protection of an eight-hundred-year-old gargoyle who will absolutely rip them apart if they touch me.
No pressure.
"How much farther?" I whisper.
"Thirty meters," Cyprian says without turning around. "The stairwell access is at the end of this corridor."
"And then?"
"Four flights. The executive suites are on the third floor."
Four flights.
In heels.
In a gown that costs more than my rent.
While committing a felony.
"This is insane," I mutter.
"It is necessary."
"Those are not mutually exclusive."
His amber veins flicker slightly brighter—the closest thing to amusement I'm going to get right now.
We reach the stairwell door.
It's heavy steel, industrial-grade, with a biometric scanner mounted on the wall beside it. The kind of security that screamsauthorized personnel onlyandwe will prosecute trespassers to the fullest extent of the law.
Cyprian presses his palm against the scanner.
Nothing happens.
And then Kael's voice crackles through the earpiece hidden beneath my hair.
"Encryption virus is live. You have access in three... two... one..."
The scanner flashes green.
The lock disengages with a soft metallic click.
Cyprian pulls the door open and gestures for me to enter first.
I step into the stairwell.
The temperature drops immediately.
The air is cold and stale, smelling faintly of concrete dust and industrial cleaning solution. The stairs are steel—narrow, steep, utilitarian—designed for emergency evacuation, not glamorous corporate infiltration.
I look down at my heels.
Then at the stairs.
Then back at Cyprian.
"You're kidding."
