The penthouse suite is, in a word, obscene.
Walls of seamless glass frame the city of Zhaovaril like a living painting. Temples aglow in the distance, neon signs flickering below, and skybridges arcing like liquid silver through the night. Velvet furniture in jewel tones dot the residence. Marble floors gleam. The minibar stands stocked with vintage bottles that probably cost more than companies make in a good quarter.
Lilith bursts into the room like a shot from a cannon, her heels clattering loudly as she flings her suitcase across the hallway, rips off her coat, and throws herself boldly onto a crescent-shaped couch that faces the skyline.
"Oh gods," she moans, stretching luxuriously. "Thalos can have my soul. It's fine. I'm calling it. This is my new throne."
