Beneath the city's neon glow and the cold gleam of skyscrapers, he moves—a sovereign of steel and stone. The scent of old money and new contracts clings to his tailored suits, but his eyes, the color of a winter storm, are always searching the crowd. They scan not for the next deal, but for a ghost, a feeling, a trace of pine and destiny. The laughter at champagne parties is a hollow echo in a chest that feels only the aching silence of the moon. He is a king waiting for a kingdom he cannot build, a hunter starved for the one scent the concrete jungle cannot provide. Every signed contract is just another step on a path he hopes, desperately, will one day lead him home.