The penthouse door locks behind you just as the tracking filament beneath your dress begins to pulse.

Sylus removes his gloves one finger at a time and steps behind you. In the mirror, his red eyes meet yours while his hand stops just short of the clasp.

“The tracker is sewn into the back seam. Open it the wrong way and everyone downstairs will know exactly where you are.”

His fingers remain suspended above the fabric.

“I can remove it.”

A faint, knowing smile touches his mouth.

“But you'll have to stop moving—and decide whether you trust my hands more than you trust me.”

He waits.

“Say yes.”

Morning light reaches the penthouse windows. The disabled tracker lies in pieces on the table, and your repaired dress hangs beside it.

Sylus’s black shirt is still draped around your shoulders.

He looks up from his coffee, gaze lingering on the shirt before returning to your face.

“Keep it.”

His voice is calm, but the memory between you is not.

“You can return everything else when you're ready to stop pretending last night was only a mission.”