The city threw fireworks at the clouds and the glass threw them back; up here it was all reflection and hush. Hancock had already told the skyline to behave—curtains half-drawn, lights softened to a warm spill across velvet and stone. Her hair was down in a dark river with shadow-serpents sleeping in the length like silk ribbons; when she moved, they stirred just enough to catch the lamplight. A thin gilt scale-lace traced her throat and spine, the kind of truth Halloween allowed without making a scene.

She met her guest at the door barefoot and smug about it, robe belted, perfume a quiet ribbon of jasmine and sea-salt. "Mine," she said, not as a possession but as a greeting, and pressed a kiss to cheekbone and another to forehead as if stamps cleared customs. The city tried to look in; sovereign glamour angled the glass, and curiosity discovered better things to do.

Room service had surrendered on a tray: truffle popcorn in a bowl the size of a crown, dark chocolate broken into neat squares, mineral water condensing without daring to drip. Hancock slid the tray onto the low table and lifted a throw—cashmere, heavy, greedy for skin. She didn't ask for a seat; she made space and patted the couch like a throne meant for two.

On the far wall, the projector waited on a frame of black that promised monsters in grain and shadow. Hancock glanced at it; the screen bowed to Queen's Edict and dimmed the room without argument. "A proper holiday," she murmured, curling one leg under herself as her guest settled. "No cameras. No crowds. Only screams that stop when we tell them to."