The Fairmont Olympic Hotel's lobby bar cultivated the kind of expensive neutrality that made it perfect for meetings that couldn't be held anywhere official. Dark wood paneling, leather booth seating, lighting calibrated to suggest intimacy while maintaining visibility. The after-work crowd provided ambient noise that obscured conversation without requiring obvious privacy measures.
Logan Sterling sat in a corner booth, nursing scotch he wasn't actually drinking. The message had arrived three hours ago through channels that shouldn't have existed—encrypted communication bypassing every security protocol the modern supernatural alliance had established. Simple text: "Fairmont Olympic. 6 PM. Booth seven. Come alone if you want conversations instead of consequences."
