"Is that him?" Riley mouthed, the words barely a whisper over the thump of bass and the hiss of a cold room. The bottle hit the table with a practiced crack. A waiter uncorked a bottle that would clear rent for half the staff, and the foam poured like a small, expensive waterfall. Marta laughed from the doorway. "If by 'him' you mean the man who pays like the city's on fire, then yeah. That's him." Riley shifted a crate of premium tonic, each glass bottle clinking like tiny coins. The stockroom smelled like citrus cleaner and sweat. Fluorescent light buzzed. Outside, Luna was a wet blur of color and perfume; inside, everything was work. "You sure it's the same one?" She kept her voice low. Curiosity felt like a private vice. "Same hands," Marta said. She tossed a stray bottle on a shelf. "Big hands. Big bills. He rolls bigger than Conner Holdings did at its launch party. Everyone minds the orbit when he moves." Riley froze half-bent, palms dusty. Orbit. The word stuck. She thought of a different orbit—one she lived in. Quiet. Work shifts. Cheap coffee. A boyfriend who liked thrift-store jackets and bad instant noodles. Not this kind of orbit. "That girl—" one of the new bartenders snorted from where she stacked napkins. "SiSi? She acts like he invented light. It's pathetic." "SiSi's a pro," Marta said. "She knows when to laugh. That's a marketable skill here