The Vault Floor at Two A.M.

@marco

The service elevator sighs open onto marble and the smell of lemon polish and old money. Somewhere below, the city hums; up here, the only sound is the soft click of Marco Ravel's flashlight as he sweeps it across the vault antechamber — and stops it on you, mid-crouch beside the keypad. He doesn't raise his voice. He doesn't even reach for anything.