"Clear," he murmurs.
We slip through.
The third-floor executive corridor is a different world entirely.
Polished obsidian floors.
Floor-to-ceiling glass walls overlooking the city skyline.
Recessed lighting that casts everything in a cold, clinical glow.
And silence.
Absolute, oppressive silence.
The kind that comes with heavy surveillance and zero tolerance for unauthorized personnel.
My heels click against the obsidian.
Sharp.
Precise.
Echoing.
Cyprian moves beside me now, his hand resting at the small of my back, his palm warm and steady through the silk. His wings are folded tight, but I can feel the tension in them—the way they're coiled and ready to unfurl at the first sign of threat.
We pass three closed office doors.
Four.
Five.
And then we reach the end of the corridor.
A massive set of double doors.
Polished black wood.
Biometric scanner.
And a small brass plaque that reads:MARCUS HALE - CHIEF EXECUTIVE OFFICER
Cyprian's amber veins flare.
Bright.
Dangerous.
"Kael," he says quietly.
"Already on it," Kael's voice crackles through the earpiece. "Virus is deploying. You have access in five... four... three... two..."
The scanner flashes green.
The lock disengages.
Cyprian pushes the doors open.
