Hunter's mansion loomed like a shadow carved into the night sky.
Or maybe castle was the better word.
The Mannington estate wasn't just a house—it was a monument. A cold-blooded, high-walled sprawl of stone and glass that sat atop the city like it owned the air.
The kind of place you didn't visit.
You were summoned.
Stacey shifted in his seat as the car rolled past the outer gates—two massive wrought iron things shaped like intertwining serpents, their fangs gleaming under the floodlights. The gates peeled open automatically, parting like the mouth of something ancient and waiting.
He swallowed, his throat tight.
The tires hummed against the private drive. It wasn't pavement—it was imported black marble, inlaid with subtle silver veining, so polished that the headlights reflected off it like water.
