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The High Alpha's mansion wasn't large in the way slick modern homes or futurist condos wereāall glass and showmanship. It wasn't built in the grandiose, competitive way the wealthy and affluent built theirs, nor was it understated.
It simply was.
The mansion was, in a way, a well-thought-out extension of Vladimir. It loomed like a castle without being one. Imposing, not arrogantāa monument to restraint, not vanity. Every line, every plane of glass, every steel frame built with exactitude, just like him. Even the air felt regulated, like spontaneity was a mortal threat to its architecture.
It was cold and impersonal, yet it breathed.
But that was not the biggest similarity between Vladimir and the domain he called home.
It mirrored his impeccable symmetry, but something was unsettling it all.
Like the perfectionism was a facade itself. That just like Vladimir, his home held secrets.
