Foxwell Tower rises just a few blocks away, all glass angles and quiet menace. From the road, it looks less like a residence and more like a monolith—a statement piece someone dropped into Baltimore just to see who flinched. There’s something cold about it, something watchful, as if the building is waiting for our arrival.

Emma slows at the front entrance. “Let’s just get inside before I rethink everything.”

We pull up to the private drop-off lane—no cabs, no doormen, just a silent stretch of polished concrete leading to two massive glass doors. The only sign of life is a soft amber glow emanating from the lobby beyond.

Emma sees a stretch of empty spots ahead and parks; she pulls the keycard Elias left and hands it to me. “Moment of truth.”

We cross the short walkway toward the doors. Beside the entry is a narrow card reader set into frosted plexi. I slide the Foxwell Tower keycard through it. A soft beep. The plexi glows green. The doors unlock with a whisper.

Inside, the lobby looks like someone curated it from the concept of wealth—marble, steel, clean lines, a chandelier so intricate it borders on art—like a Chihuly piece, but more industrial. But beneath it all, there’s a low vibration, like the air itself is holding its breath. The mark between my shoulders responds with a faint, unwelcome warmth.

Emma nudges me. “You’re sure this isn’t cursed?”

“No.” I say plainly.

“Cool,” she deadpans, “love that for us.”

The concierge sits behind a broad slab of a desk, illuminated by a single, tastefully hidden light source. He looks up the moment we enter—and freezes. Recognition flashes in his eyes before he schools his expression into professional neutrality.

“Mr. Poe,” he says. “Welcome to Foxwell Tower.”

“Nope,” Emma mutters under her breath. “Absolutely not.”