The Oathkeeper's Bond

The elevator's chrome walls reflected your own taut expression as it climbed the forty stories to Adrian Voss's penthouse. You'd worn the navy blazer Elena insisted made you look "professional," but your fingers kept tugging at the hem, a nervous habit your grandmother would have scolded.

The doors slid open with a whisper of hydraulic grace. The penthouse opened before you like a held breath—floor-to-ceiling windows framing the glittering grid of Manhattan, a grand piano gleaming in the corner, and art on the walls that cost more than your entire education.

Adrian Voss stood at the window, back to you, silhouette sharp against the city lights. He didn't turn when you entered.

"You're early," he said. His voice carried an edge—not anger, but something measured. "Punctuality. A dying virtue."

You opened your mouth to respond, but a movement caught your eye. Marcus. He stood in the shadows near a bookshelf, arms crossed, watching you with the patient stillness of a predator. His gaze swept over you once, twice, cataloging.

Adrian turned. His eyes were the color of winter sea, and when they found yours, something in the room shifted.

"I've read your file." He set down a crystal glass. "It says nothing about your bloodline."