The ringtone is wrong for a monastery. It starts as a thin, reverberant chime—too shiny to be a temple bell, all glass and chrome—but it hits the chest the same way: a small, precise knock that tells a man to wake and answer. I blink against light like a man coming up through water. Crystal chandeliers sprinkle hard points across the ceiling. Velvet drapes lean away from the windows like told horses. A tray of untouched cosmetic jars and a half-assembled costume sit on the ottoman. The room smells of jasmine lotion and ozone. I reach for the device on the nightstand—sleek, transparent edges, Conway Rossi’s emblem engraved on the back—and the sound is already threaded into my bones. It is not mine. A bell that wasn't mine. My hand looks unfamiliar in the morning light: long, manicured nails someone else kept alive. The body answers the call automatically. "Yes?" I say. "Did he wake?" The voice on the line is cool and practiced, a violin string pulled tight. Too practiced. Conway. Conway's laugh, low and careful. "He always does when I ring. Aiden Vale's up at dawn, soft as some pet." "Is he—" another voice, amused, the sort of thing wealth breeds: voices that have never learned to wait. "Is he going to sing for us tonight? Or are we keeping him caged?" There are four voices, the metallic chorus of people who own evenings and buy out storms. I