The marble lobby of Salvatore Tower gleamed like wet bone, its reflections fractured under the pulse of red city light. Sandra's heels marked her presence—sharp, deliberate, betraying more confidence than she felt. The night outside was a blur of headlights and rain, and inside, everything smelled faintly of money and smoke.
The elevator sighed open on the thirty-second floor. Silence followed her out, thick enough to press against her ribs. This was not the kind of place people entered without being summoned, and yet, here she was—called for reasons she didn't yet understand, clutching a folder like it was armor.
The hallway ended in glass. Beyond it, the skyline stretched black and endless, streaked with the bleeding glow of traffic. Inside the conference room, one man stood with his back to her, framed by the light and the rain. His reflection shimmered across the windows—broad shoulders, precise posture, a presence that didn't belong to anyone ordinary.
She hesitated. "Mr. Salvatore?"
He turned slightly, just enough for her to catch the line of his jaw. The room seemed smaller for it.
"Call me Eli," he said. His voice was smooth, but carried the weight of a blade.
Sandra's throat went dry. "You asked to see me tonight. I—"
A soft thud broke through her sentence, somewhere beyond the hallway. Then another.
Eli's expression didn't change, but the air did. It tightened, electric.
He tilted his head slightly. "Did you come here alone?"
"Yes."
"Then stay behind me."
The next second shattered.
The glass at the end of the corridor exploded inward. Sandra flinched as shards rained down, flashing like small knives under the city's red glow. The noise was deafening—boots, gunmetal, the dull percussion of violence breaking through polished calm.
Eli moved before she saw the threat, one arm sweeping her out of sight, the other drawing the pistol from beneath his jacket in a single clean motion. She stumbled against him, breath catching, her back against his chest as the first gunshot tore through the room.
The smell of cordite bloomed instantly. Heat. Smoke. Silence between the chaos.
She tried to breathe, but his hand was at her waist, grounding her, pulling her closer into the corner where the light didn't reach. Every instinct screamed to run, but the contact—firm, certain—stopped her from unraveling completely.
A figure came through the doorway, masked and silent. Eli's arm shifted. One shot. The body dropped.
He didn't flinch. Didn't look. He was movement and precision, the rhythm of someone who had lived with death too long to fear it.
"Keep your head down," he said quietly. She felt the vibration of his voice through his chest before she heard it in her ears.
Her knees hit the marble as he ducked with her behind the long mahogany table. She pressed her palms against the cold surface, trying to keep them still, but the tremor wouldn't stop. Through the shards of glass, the city flashed in and out like a pulse, red then black then red again.
Another shot cracked through the air. Then silence.
Eli exhaled, the sound low and steady, the kind that steadied her without permission.
"Who are they?" she whispered.
"People who want what's not theirs," he said. "And people who think I'll let them have it."
When he looked at her, his eyes caught the light—pale and unreadable, the color of a storm that hadn't decided where to break. There was a cut across his temple, a thin line of blood sliding toward his cheekbone. He didn't notice, or didn't care.
He reached for her hand without thinking, checking for blood, for wounds. His fingers were rough, calloused, but careful. Too careful for someone who'd just ended a life.
She could barely speak. "You knew this would happen?"
His hand stilled. "Not tonight."
The distant wail of sirens rose outside, distorted by the rain. The emergency lights in the corridor flickered back to life, painting the room in pulses of crimson and white. It made everything look like it was bleeding.
"Stay close," Eli said again.
He stood, pulling her with him. The corridor beyond the office was smoke and glass, the floor a map of chaos. They moved quickly—his hand at the small of her back, directing her through the haze, her heart a riot in her chest. She couldn't tell if it was fear or the gravity of him that made her pulse race harder with each step.
They reached the service stairs. The metal door groaned as he pushed it open, revealing a narrow shaft of concrete lit by an emergency bulb. The echo of their footsteps chased them downward.
The sound of pursuit followed—boots against tile, distant, closing. Eli didn't look back. "Keep moving," he murmured.
Her breath came sharp and uneven. The air tasted of rust and adrenaline. She caught herself glancing at him between steps—his jaw set, his grip unrelenting. Not a man uncertain of danger. Not a man unfamiliar with it.
By the time they reached the lobby, her body felt weightless, her thoughts stripped to survival. Rain still fell outside, heavier now, washing the streets in ribbons of red light. The night had swallowed the tower, and in its reflection, she saw herself—hair wild, eyes wide, everything she'd been an hour ago gone.
She turned toward him, voice barely audible over the sirens. "What happens now?"
Eli's gaze held hers, something dark and resigned flickering beneath it. "Now," he said, "you stop pretending your life was ever ordinary."
And as they stepped out into the storm, the city swallowed them whole.
The rain hit her skin, cold and clean, and she realized with bone-deep certainty
that the girl who walked into Salvatore Tower tonight no longer existed.