Cyprian moves ahead of me, his footsteps completely silent despite his size.
I follow, trying to match his pace, my heels clicking softly against the marble.
We pass several closed doors—executive offices, private conference rooms, a lounge area with leather furniture and a fully stocked bar.
And then we reach it.
Suite 3-A.
The door is black glass, seamless and imposing, with a biometric lock glowing soft blue beside the frame.
And standing in front of it is the enforcer.
He's massive.
Easily six-foot-five, maybe two hundred and fifty pounds of heavily augmented muscle packed into a tailored black suit.
His shoulders are broad—too broad, actually, the deltoids locked in that rigid forward position I identified in the anatomical diagrams.
The vulnerability.
The exact point where the musculoskeletal anchor fails under targeted pressure.
My heart starts pounding.
This is it.
The live demonstration.
The moment where we find out if my theory actually works or if I'm about to get us both killed.
Cyprian's hand tightens on my back.
A silent signal:Stay behind me.
But I shake my head.
Because this won't work if he goes first.
The enforcer will see him as a threat.
Will trigger the alarm.
Will lock down the entire building before we can get anywhere near that vault.
We need a distraction.
We need someone the enforcer won't see coming.
Someone vulnerable.
Someone harmless.
I step out from behind Cyprian.
His amber veins flare bright.
Not gold.
