And we step into Marcus Hale's private executive suite.
It's obscene.
That's the only word for it.
The suite is massive—easily the size of my entire apartment—with floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the entire city. The obsidian desk in the center of the room is the size of a small car, polished to a mirror shine, with holographic displays flickering across its surface.
The walls are lined with awards.
Plaques.
Framed photographs of Hale shaking hands with politicians, corporate titans, military generals.
And in the corner, mounted on a pedestal like a trophy, is a taxidermied gargoyle wing.
Cyprian goes completely still.
His amber veins flare orange.
Not gold.
Orange.
Dangerous.
"Cyprian," I whisper.
He doesn't respond.
He's staring at the wing.
At the way it's been preserved and displayed like a hunting trophy.
"Cyprian," I say again, louder this time. "We don't have time."
His jaw clenches.
And then he moves.
Not toward the wing.
Toward the desk.
He positions himself at the doors, his massive frame blocking the entrance, his wings unfurling slightly to fill the space.
A living barricade.
"Three minutes," he says quietly. "Find it."
I move to the desk.
The holographic displays are still active, flickering with encrypted data streams and security feeds. I scan the surface, looking for anything that resembles a physical drive.
And then I see it.
A small obsidian case.
Biometric-locked.
