“It’s not just black up there, Lucian. It’s a riot. It’s a cathedral of silver and obsidian.”

I stood behind him on the penthouse terrace of the Aldridge Tower, the wind whipping my hair into a frantic halo. Below us, Manhattan was a grid of electric veins, but above, the sky over the East River was unusually clear—a rare, bruised purple that felt infinite.

Lucian leaned against the glass railing, his knuckles white as he gripped the cold steel. He wasn’t wearing his suit jacket; his white dress shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, billowing in the draft. He looked like a man standing on the edge of the world,...