The party thinned into that velvety exhaustion where joy stopped performing and started telling the truth. Goodbyes stretched longer than etiquette allowed. Champagne-warm kisses bloomed on cheeks. Hands lingered, squeezing like they were trying to memorize bone.
We spilled out of the elevator into the underground garage in a slow river of silk and laughter, thirty-two people drunk on celebration and pretending tomorrow was optional. The air tasted of exhaust and moneyed perfume, gasoline softened by jasmine and oud.
Headlights carved yellow corridors through the concrete gloom. Valets jogged between idling engines, moving with the urgency of men who understood the value of what they were shepherding.
Phantoms. Bentleys. Blacked-out SUVs.
A motorcade that looked like old money and new power had gotten drunk together and decided to reproduce.
Soo-Jin rolled the van forward without a sound. Matte black. Unmarked. Quiet in a way that felt intentional.
