In his office at The Sanctuary, Manager Franks sat back in his leather chair, feeling a sense of accomplishment. He had kept the riff-raff out. He had pleased the VIPs.

The phone on his desk rang. The caller ID made him sit up straight. Mr. Peters. The owner.

Franks grabbed the receiver. "Mr. Peters! Good evening!"

"How did the Clemons party enjoy the upgrade?" Chet's voice was casual, friendly.

"They loved it, sir! Miss Clemons was delightful. Very appreciative."

"Good," Chet said. "And Dylan? Did she like the view? I know she loves the city lights in the rain."

Franks paused. His blood ran cold. "Dylan?"

"The girl," Chet said. "The one the party was for. The guest of honor."

Franks felt the room spin. "There was... a girl in boots. We... we turned her away."

Silence.

It wasn't a peaceful silence. It was the kind of silence that preceded a bomb blast.

"You turned her away?" Chet's voice dropped an octave. It was no longer friendly.

"She... she violated dress code, sir," Franks stammered, sweat breaking out on his forehead. "She looked like... she didn't belong."

"She owns half the equipment in that kitchen, Franks," Chet said, his voice deadly quiet. "She's a silent partner. The one who uses the 'D. Clemons' alias specifically to test our staff's discretion. You just kicked out the boss."

Franks choked. "What?"

"Pray she doesn't fire you," Chet said. "Because I can't save you."

Click. The line went dead.

Franks stared at the wall, the receiver shaking in his hand. He had just declared war on the wrong person.

Miles away, the Range Rover approached the massive iron gates of Sovereign Heights. It was the most exclusive residential tower in the city, home to senators, tech moguls, and ghosts.

The security camera scanned the license plate. The gates opened silently.

Dylan looked up at the glass tower piercing the night sky.

"Home sweet home," she sighed.

They drove into the private underground garage. It was climate-controlled and filled with shapes under dust covers. A McLaren. A vintage Shelby.

Dylan grabbed her bag and headed to the private elevator. She placed her eye against the scanner.

Retina Confirmed. Welcome, Genesis.

The elevator shot up. It didn't stop until the 90th floor.

The doors opened. Dylan stepped out into a sprawling, modern penthouse. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a 360-degree view of the city. From here, the Clemons estate was just a speck of dust in the distance.

Dylan threw her duffel bag onto the white Italian leather sofa. It landed with a dull thud.

She walked to the windows. The rain had stopped, leaving the city washed clean and glittering with a million lights.

She unlocked the sliding glass door and stepped out onto the terrace. The wind was brisk, whipping strands of hair across her face.

The terrace wrapped around the building, separated from the adjacent unit-Penthouse Two-by a frosted glass privacy wall and a row of tall bamboo planters.

She smelled it before she saw him. Smoke. High-end tobacco. Clove and leather.

She peered through a gap in the bamboo.

A man was leaning on the railing of the next balcony. He was wearing a dark silk robe, loosely tied. A white bandage was visible on his chest, stark against tan skin.

It was the "Doctor" from the train.

Dylan froze. "You have got to be kidding me."

Anson turned. His instincts were sharp. He sensed eyes on him instantly.

He saw her. His eyes widened slightly, then crinkled at the corners. Amusement danced in the gray depths.

"Well, well," he drawled, his voice carrying over the wind. "If it isn't my savior."

Dylan recovered quickly. She leaned against her railing. "Stalking me, Doctor?"

Anson laughed. It was a rich sound. "I live here. The question is, how did you get in?"

Sovereign Heights had only two Penthouses. They were sold by invitation only.

"I broke in," Dylan lied smoothly. "Looking for silverware to steal. You know, since I'm a charity case."

Anson toasted her with the glass of whiskey in his hand. "Take the silver. Leave the copper. It's vintage."

He knew she belonged here. No one broke into Sovereign Heights. The security was military-grade. Which meant this girl-the one in the hoodie who fought like a soldier-was his neighbor.

This changed his assessment. Drastically.

"So, neighbor," Anson said. "What's your name again?"

"Still just Dylan."

"Just Dylan. Living in a fifty-million-dollar apartment."

"I'm house-sitting," she deflected.

Anson nodded, playing along. "Of course. for whom?"

"A very private person."

Dylan stepped back toward her door. "Goodnight, Doctor. Try not to bleed on the balcony. It stains."

She stepped inside, locked the door, and pulled the automated blinds shut.

Anson stood on the balcony, watching her window go dark. He pulled out his phone and dialed a number.

"Investigate the owner of Penthouse One," he ordered. "And find out how her file was scrubbed from my initial security sweep. Now."