Callum stared at the blueprint of the Monolith. The lines were crisp, unwavering, and absolute. He loved the brutalist aesthetic—the raw honesty of exposed concrete, the heavy weight of geometric forms, the way a building could dominate a skyline without apologizing for its existence.
To Callum, a right angle was a moral imperative.
The heavy oak door of the studio swung open with a crash that echoed off the polished concrete floors. The scent of jasmine and something sugary, like expensive macarons, flooded the sterile air.
"Still staring at the grey boxes, Callum? I’m starting to think you’re actually a robot."
Ivy lounged against the doorframe. She wore a silk slip dress the color of a bruised plum that clung to every curve of her twenty-one-year-old frame. Her blonde hair was a mes
