Alexander stood in the corridor leading to the Floor Seventy-Six elevators, his back still to Vanessa and Katarina. He'd meant what he said. They needed to leave. For their own safety. For his peace of mind.But then Vanessa's voice cut through the silence, firm and unyielding:"No."Alexander turned slowly. "What?""I said no," Vanessa repeated, crossing her arms. "I'm not leaving. You can't make me. And before you try to argue, let me explain why you need me up there on the higher floors.""Vanessa—""I have the knowledge, Alexander," she interrupted. "The dynamics of the upper floors. The politics. The players. You're walking into territory controlled by the wealthiest, most ruthless families in the country, and you don't even know who half of them are. You need me to navigate that.""I can figure it out—""No, you can't," Vanessa said bluntly. "Not fast enough. Not without making fatal mistakes. These people eat amateurs for breakfast. You need someone who understands how they thi

The Stanford family had positioned themselves deliberately in the center of the lobby—not just occupying space but dominating it. Every other competitor gave them a wide berth, instinctively recognizing apex predators when they saw them.Two men separated from the family group and moved to intercept Vanessa, Alexander, and Katarina. Brothers, clearly—they shared the same sharp features, the same cold blue eyes, the same predatory gait. But where one moved with calculated precision, the other radiated barely contained aggression.The calculated one—dressed in a suit that probably cost more than a car—spoke first, blocking Vanessa's path with his body positioned just aggressively enough to be threatening without being overtly violent."Vanessa Sterling," he said, his voice smooth as expensive whiskey. "We've been watching you. Very impressive performance on Floor Seventy-Five. The kill night, we're calling it. Twenty-four hours of sanctioned violence, and you managed to survive without

The confrontation with the Stanford brothers had drawn attention—not just from casual onlookers, but from the other major families who'd made it to Floor Seventy-Six. Heads turned. Conversations stopped. Everyone wanted to see how the nobodies from the lower floors would handle the Stanfords.And then, cutting through the crowd with the controlled grace of a predator, came another figure.Kenji Miyagi.Eldest son of the Miyagi family. Heir to a fortune built over six generations through a combination of legitimate business and yakuza connections that everyone knew about but no one could prove. He wore traditional Japanese clothing—a modern interpretation of formal wear that somehow looked both elegant and deadly. His face was expressionless, but his eyes burned with barely contained fury.He walked straight past the Stanford brothers—a deliberate insult in itself—and stopped directly in front of Vanessa's group. But his eyes weren't on Vanessa.They were locked on Alexander."You," Ke

The Stanford brothers stood there gaping at Kenji Miyagi like he'd just sprouted a second head. Julian recovered first, his calculated composure cracking with genuine disbelief."I'm sorry," Julian said slowly. "Did you just offer ten million dollars to... that?" He gestured at Alexander with barely concealed contempt. "To that shabby, hungry-looking street rat? The one who probably hasn't seen ten thousand dollars in his entire miserable life?""Are you feeling alright, Miyagi?" Marcus added with a mocking laugh. "Did you hit your head during the kill night? Because that's the only explanation for trying to buy off someone who looks like he needs to spend that money on a decent meal and some clothes that don't look like they came from a dumpster."Kenji's expression remained neutral, but his voice carried an edge when he responded. "Unlike you, Stanford, I don't judge capability by appearance. I judge it by results. And the result is that Sterling is alive when she shouldn't be. That

The lobby had gone so silent that Alexander could hear his own heartbeat. Every eye was fixed on his hand—still wrapped around Marcus Stanford's wrist—and the implications of what had just happened were sinking in for everyone watching.A proxy. A nobody. A street rat in discount clothes had just put his hands on one of the Stanford heirs.That didn't happen. Ever.Marcus's face cycled through shock, disbelief, and then pure, incandescent rage. "You... you TOUCHED me? You filthy, worthless piece of gutter trash actually put your disgusting hands on ME?"Four of the Stanford proxies stepped forward, moving in perfect synchronization. These weren't the largest men in their group, but they were the most dangerous-looking—scarred faces, dead eyes, the kind of men who'd killed so many times it had stopped meaning anything."Boss," the lead proxy said, his voice a gravelly rasp, "you want us to handle this? Make an example?""Yes," Marcus snarled, still trying unsuccessfully to wrench his w