The place had more balconies than a Versailles fever‑dream, but Annabelle aimed higher. If she was gonna yank the band‑aid off her conscience, she wanted open sky and a drop that screamed "no take‑backs." So, after the whole garden heart‑to‑heart, she snagged Parker's sleeve, flashed a "trust me" grin, and steered him through a service stairwell that smelled like old cedar and richer‑than‑God furniture polish.
Up, up—past locked doors, past an out‑of‑order lift (she blitzed the door lock with a lazy flick of void‑magic: small sparks, big attitude), until they burst onto the top terrace—flat roof, waist‑high balustrade, neon city sprawled below like spilled jewels. Wind stole the leftover music from downstairs and shredded it into nothing.
Lanterns up here burned low, amber halos doing their best impression of starlight.
Parker parked himself against the railing, arms folded, expression a cool "so what's the mission?" vibe.
