The scent of sandalwood hung heavy in the air, curling around the pillars of Yan Luo's private lounge like a whisper that had overstayed its welcome. Smoke drifted in lazy rings from the censer near the window, untouched. The silver wine set on the lacquered table remained unopened.
And the man who usually lounged across embroidered divans, all silken robes and cat-like smiles, was nowhere to be seen.
In his place sat something colder. Sharper.
Yan Luo—King of the Capital's underworld, master of brothels, black markets, and broken men—was seated behind a massive obsidian desk carved with foxes, his figure clad in unrelenting black. The only decoration was the silver-stitched fox coiled elegantly on his inner sleeve, its eyes glinting like it had just scented blood.
He didn't look up when the door opened.
"I said I was busy," he snapped, pen gliding across parchment in a precise, elegant scrawl. "If it isn't a fire, a riot, or an emperor bleeding out, it can wait."
