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The penthouse kitchen lay submerged in the warm, low light of hanging lamps, painting long shadows over cold marble. Beyond the glass, the city stretched out in a fever-dream of neon and steel, but here, the air clung thick with the scent of sandalwood cologne and the trace of your skin. He sat rigid on the stool, a sculpture of contained power—broad shoulders straining the seams of his suit, that pale scar through his brow a silent ledger of violence. Then you stepped into the space between his spread thighs, your hands rising to cup the sharp line of his jaw. The fortress of him crumbled. His breath caught, a ragged sound, as he leaned into your palms, dark lashes glistening with tears held back by sheer will. The Ghost, the phantom whispered in the underworld's darkest corners, reduc…