The night had a hush to it. The kind of silence that didn't feel empty, but expectant—like the pause before a violin's first note.
The Heliantheas Hall stood at the heart of the old diplomatic quarter, wrapped in high walls of sandstone and black marble, illuminated only by carefully positioned lights that refused to overstate their presence. There were no media, no paparazzi, not even an obvious valet station. Only people who were meant to be there arrived. Everyone else didn't know it existed.
Lin Feng stepped from his car into the cool night. He wore a tailored black suit with fine charcoal embroidery around the cuffs, understated but undeniably expensive. His hair was slicked back, but not so much it looked deliberate. Under the outer calm was a quiet intensity, like a calm surface hiding deeper waters.
He looked up at the entrance—massive doors flanked by polished stone columns, guarded not by bouncers but by men who moved like they didn't need to be seen to be lethal.
