The morning sun spilled a molten gold over the city skyline and gilding glass towers. But James Harding barely registered the beauty of it. His grip on the steering wheel of his sleek gray Audi A7 was tight, knuckles pale, every muscle in his jaw locked in quiet frustration.
The traffic around him pulsed like a living thing—honking horns, the distant wail of sirens, the rhythmic thrum of tires on asphalt. Yet beneath all that noise, James heard only the steady thump of his heartbeat and the soft, impatient drumming of his fingers against the leather wheel.
For the past thirty minutes, he'd been calling Rafael. Over and over. Each unanswered ring chipped away at his calm, replacing it with a slow-burning unease he couldn't shake. It wasn't like Rafael to vanish into silence. The man was a perfectionist, almost obsessively punctual with his replies, whether it was a text in the dead of night or a call during a board meeting.
