Purpose.
La Reina Azul glows against the wet night like a polished jewel dropped into the city’s throat.
The restaurant windows burn gold through rain streaks. Luxury transports idle along the curb. Valets move beneath dark umbrellas while elegantly dressed patrons step laughing into warmth and music. Somewhere inside, rich men discussterritory over imported liquor while musicians play strings soft enough to disguise threats.
I walk straight through the front doors dripping rainwater and murder.
The hostess recognizes me instantly.
Her professional smile flickers. “Mr. Kauss?—”
“Lenrog.”
“Mr. Lenrog is currently entertain?—”
“Now.”
Several heads turn.
The musicians falter for half a second before recovering. The guards near the bar straighten subtly. One reaches toward his coat.
I look at him.
He stops.
The hostess swallows. “Sir, if you would simply allow me?—”
“No.”
I move.
The restaurant reacts around me in widening circles. Chairs scrape softly. Wealthy patrons pretend not to stare while absolutely staring. The guards converge with careful speed, trained enough not to rush a Vakutan assault veteran head-on unless forced.
Two intercept me near the rear wine display.
“Sir,” one says carefully, “you need to stop.”
“I do not.”
The second guard shifts slightly sideways, preparing angles. Good training. “Mr. Lenrog did not approve another meeting tonight.”
“I am revising the schedule.”
Hands touch weapons now.
Not drawn yet.
I stop moving long enough to make the point clear. Rainwater drips from my hair onto polished tile. The entire restaurant feels suspended around us, holding breath beneath chandelier light and violin music.
“Move,” I say quietly.
The first guard’s jaw tightens. “We can’t do that.”
I take one step closer.
He sees it then.
Not threat.
