The Architect's Design

The city breathed a humid, starless night, the air thick with the scent of exhaust fumes and something far more rotten. Sylvia, draped in the midnight hue of her bespoke coat, moved through it like a whisper given form. Councilman Valerius Thorne’s name had been a persistent, buzzing fly in her ear for weeks, its oily drone promising a feast of corruption. Tonight, the fly was about to be swatted, and Sylvia was the hand.

Her destination was a discreet, unmarked building in the warehouse district, a place where legitimate businesses held their breath while illicit ones thrived. Thorne, she’d learned, had a penchant for late-night “consultations” that had nothing to do with civic duty. Her source, a nervous clerk with a conscience too large for his paycheque, had provided a time, a place, and a vague description of Thorne’s usual companion: a man with eyes like chips of obsidian and a smile that promised ruin.

The building was a hulking silhouette against the bruised sky. Sylvia bypassed the main entrance, a door that likely boasted more locks than a dragon’s hoard. Instead, she scaled a rusted fire escape, her movements fluid and silent. The window she chose was grimy, but a careful application of a chemical solvent, a small vial conjured from the depths of her coat’s lining, rendered it momentarily transparent. Inside, a dimly lit office pulsed with hushed conversation.