Kael Tower
11:42 A.M.
Ava Moren stepped into the glass-paneled lobby of Kael Tower with the unbothered grace of someone who had memorized the building's blueprints the night before. Every surveillance blind spot. Every soft surface that wouldn't absorb a bullet. Every exit and every damn flaw the architects thought no one would notice.
The receptionist looked up from her screen, lips parting to deliver a rehearsed smile, but faltered as Ava approached — hair tied back, no makeup, a matte-black blazer worn over tactical gear built to blend, not impress.
"Can I—?"
"Ava Moren. Sentinel Private Security. Kael requested a detail."
The woman blinked, tapped on her tablet, then swallowed. "Elevator C. He's expecting you."
Ava didn't thank her.
She never did.
The elevator was lined in soft brass and marble, like every surface in the building needed to whisper wealth. The second the doors closed, she checked her reflection in the metal.
Eyes sharp. Calm. No tells.
She shifted her stance slightly to loosen the Glock's position against her ribs. Her body remembered every angle of violence — the breakpoints, the patterns, the aftershocks. The instinct to prep before meeting a client wasn't nerves. It was math.
Kael Tower had security. Good security. Not good enough.
Ten seconds after stepping off the elevator at floor 49, she had already logged five weaknesses in the corridor's defense. One of the ceiling motion sensors blinked inconsistently. The secondary keypad for emergency override had scuff marks—recent ones, like someone had been tampering with it. Too many fingerprints. Too little maintenance.
The door to Rowan Kael's penthouse was already open. Not just unlocked — physically open. Like it had been left waiting for her.
Sloppy.
She entered with practiced care, checking corners. Minimal furniture. Floor-to-ceiling glass. A long, modern kitchen with no knives in the block. Instead, an electric security drawer buzzed faintly on the counter, sealed shut.
Everything about the space screamed curated efficiency. Or pretense.
Then she saw him.
Rowan Kael stood barefoot near the kitchen island, tall and calm and irritatingly at ease in black slacks and a slate-gray Henley, sleeves pushed to his forearms like he'd just been writing code or dismantling secrets. He was younger-looking than she expected. Sharper in the face. No suit. No tie.
He looked up from the glass of water he was holding and gave her a look that didn't linger, didn't leer—just noted.
"You're early."
Ava kept her tone even. "You're exposed."
His brow lifted slightly.
"That window," she continued, nodding toward the open skyline. "Triple-layer polycarbonate, sure. But you've got no smart tinting, no thermal deflection, and the blinds? Paper-thin. A good sniper could light you up from the next tower over."
Rowan took a sip of his water. "Charming first impression."
"I'm not here to charm."
"You do realize I live here, right?"
"And I realize you hired someone to keep you breathing. If this is how you normally operate, I'm surprised you've made it this long."
A corner of his mouth curved. Not quite a smile. "You must be a hit at parties."
"I don't go to parties."
"Figures."
She crossed the room without asking permission, her boots barely making a sound on the polished wood. "Who's your current threat?"
Rowan gestured toward the living room couch where a tablet rested, screen still on. "Two days ago, someone bypassed the server room's access logs. No alarm was triggered. Nothing stolen. But they left something behind."
"Fingerprint?"
He nodded. "Belonged to a man named Ellis Lorne."
"Dead?"
Rowan's gaze flicked to hers. "Three years. Confirmed. I went to the funeral."
She didn't blink. "And you think someone planted it?"
"I don't think anything yet."
Ava studied him. His expression wasn't panicked. Wasn't cocky either. Just… measured.
Most men in his position would already be sweating. Hiding something. Bragging about their encryption layers and private firewalls.
Rowan looked like he was trying to solve a puzzle — and not the one about who broke into his systems.
He's assessing me too, she realized.
And that was fine. Let him look. Let him wonder.
But if he tried anything beyond that, she'd end it in a heartbeat.
"Take me to the server room," she said.
"Of course," he said, and turned without waiting.
Ava followed, noting his stride — smooth, relaxed, but not lazy. He walked like a man who expected people to move around him, not with him.
Not a fighter. But not weak either.
The elevator to the sublevels required a biometric scan. Rowan held his hand to the reader, and the doors whispered open. The lighting in the sublevel was colder, more industrial. No polish. No brass trim. Just bare floors and low, steady hums from the core servers behind soundproof glass.
"You keep your backups here?" Ava asked.
"No. Offsite."
"Smart."
He gestured to a panel beside one of the security doors. "This is where the print was found. No signs of forced entry. Just… left. Placed clean."
She crouched, gloved fingers skimming along the edge. No smudges. No scratches. Nothing careless.
Too clean.
"Who else has access down here?"
"Just me, and two encrypted admin profiles that only activate if I give vocal permission."
"Could've been an inside job," she said.
"I run background on everyone. Rotational checks. Third-party audits."
"So did half the CEOs who ended up with bullets in their throats."
He gave her a look — not defensive. Just quiet.
This one doesn't rattle easy, Ava thought.
She stood, dusting off her gloves. "You're not the first man with enemies. And you won't be the last. But if someone left a fingerprint without leaving anything else, they weren't trying to steal from you."
Rowan tilted his head. "Then what were they doing?"
She looked back at the panel, then at him.
"Sending a message."
2:23 P.M. — Same Day
Back in the Penthouse
Rowan poured himself another glass of water and offered one to her. She didn't take it.
"You really don't do small talk," he noted.
"Small talk doesn't keep people alive."
He leaned back against the kitchen counter, studying her. "You read me fast. That always part of the job?"
"Yes."
"So what am I?"
Ava didn't look up from the tablet she was reviewing. "You're a man who built an empire out of people's secrets, but doesn't trust anyone with your own. You sleep less than you admit. You're annoyed someone might be smarter than you, but you're more afraid they might be watching you. And if someone's trying to kill you, it's not because they want to. It's because they have to."
He was quiet for a moment. Then: "And what are you?"
Ava looked up, gaze cool. "The one who makes sure you don't die."
6:47 P.M.
Server Room – Observation Footage
Ava sat in the dim glow of the sublevel's observation deck, scrubbing through the access logs again. There — at the 3:17 A.M. mark — a flicker. One second of distorted footage. Just one frame. Not long enough to make out a face, but—
She paused it. Zoomed in.
Something was written on the corner of the access panel.
Small. Barely visible under infrared.
Four words.
"You brought her here."
Her throat tightened.
No one in this city should've known she took this job. She hadn't used her real name in months. Sentinel used random call signs. Even the firm's records didn't list her full ID.
Someone wanted her to see this.
This wasn't just about Rowan.
Someone knew her.