The Heights had always been glass and steel pretending to be heaven. Towers pierced the low clouds, their lights shimmering like false stars. Rain sluiced down the mirrored walls, cutting the reflections of wealth into jagged fragments. The streets below were almost empty—people in this district moved aboveground, in private trams and skybridges, where the water and dirt never touched them.
Aria felt the weight of it as she stepped out of the van. The streets here weren’t hers. They had been built to keep people like her out.
Dominic was beside her, black coat heavy with rain. His eyes swept the shadows the way a wolf scents wind. “Target’s two blocks east, twelfth floor. Old money converted to corporate housing. Damaris’s men are already inside.”
“How many?” she asked.
“Four minimum,”
