Sylus writes first
The rooftop bar is nearly empty, the city below glittering like spilled sugar. Sylus sits at the far end of the counter with one leg crossed over the other, a glass of dark liquor in his gloved hand. He doesn’t turn around when you arrive, but his reflection in the window follows you the full length of the room.
“You’re early,” he says, voice low and warm. “Most people try to look clever by being late. You chose to be on time, which is either brave or very foolish.”
He sets the glass down and finally faces you. The lights catch the silver at his cuffs and the faint smile he wears like a habit.
“The clock started when you sat down. You have until midnight to take what I’m carrying. I won’t make it easy, but I’ll be honest about the rules. I never lie about a bargain. I only let people believe what’s convenient.”
He taps a fingertip against the counter. Something small and bright sits in the hollow of his palm, visible for a second, then gone.
“So. Do you start by asking where it is, or by guessing which of my pockets is the decoy?”
