The skyline of Sector Three shimmered like a lake of suspended starlight, its web of neon arteries casting glows across the tinted glass walls of the sky-rise restaurant. Hover-vehicles hummed faintly below, and the air up here, hundreds of stories above the city floor, was crisp and subtly perfumed with synthesized floral traces.
Alister sat back in a sleek black chair, one leg crossed over the other, a half-empty glass of dark wine in hand. He gazed out through the floor-to-ceiling windows, watching the clouds drift lazily past. His golden eyes were calm. Serene.
Across from him, Anya gently lowered her menu.
"You know," she said, twirling the stem of her glass between her fingers, "witnessing a public execution and actually going for dinner right after has to be one of the strangest transitions I've ever made in my life."
Alister blinked once, then turned his attention to her.
