The night air around Jake's penthouse shimmered with city lights — towers of glass and steel glowing against the dusk, cars streaming by in muted rhythm.
Inside, the apartment was silent except for the faint hum of the air conditioner and Jake's uneven breathing.
He was sprawled across the bed, still fully clothed. His eyes were shut, his body heavy with the weight of the drug Raymond had slipped into his drink.
In no time, the door opened softly.
Helena stepped in, her heels clicking against the polished floor. She had changed into a sleek black dress that fit like a second skin, her red lips curved in something between nervousness and resolve.
Raymond followed behind her, closing the door halfway. He looked at Jake's still form, a flicker of guilt although faint but present, flashed in his eyes. Then, as quickly as it came, it vanished.
"Well," Helena said quietly, her gaze moving from Jake to Raymond, "you weren't exaggerating. He's out cold."
