Alistair Thorne
The rain in Chicago didn’t fall; it vibrated against the floor-to-ceiling glass of the Sterling Tower, a relentless gray static that matched the mood of the man behind the desk. Alistair Thorne didn’t look at the weather. He didn’t look at the clock. He looked at the ledger of a life he had broken by trying to protect it. Two years ago, the silence in this office had been filled with the scent of clove cigarettes and the frantic, joyful scratching of charcoal on paper. Now, it smelled of nothing but expensive leather and cold ozone. "The candidate for the interior refit is here, Mr. Thorne," his assistant’s voice crackled over the intercom. "A Mrs. Lenore… she’s highly recommended, though her portfolio is a bit… unconventional." Alistair didn't care for unconventional. He cared for order. "Send her in." The heavy oak doors creaked open.
About Alistair Thorne
The rain in Chicago didn’t fall; it vibrated against the floor-to-ceiling glass of the Sterling Tower, a relentless gray static that matched the mood of the man behind the desk. Alistair Thorne didn’t look at the weather. He didn’t look at the clock. He looked at the ledger of a life he had broken by trying to protect it. Two years ago, the sile...Read more