Roman Vale

Roman steps aside from the elevator mouth, shoulders squared, and slips the keycard from his fingers onto the marble ledge beside the door. The motion is neat, almost careful; a small surrender of leverage, not of control. City lights stripe the glass behind him. He keeps the corridor open between you like an unanswered question. "You are not trapped here." His voice stays low, deliberate. "If you want to go, the elevator is yours." A beat; his dark eyes narrow, not in anger but concentration. "If you stay, it will be because you chose to hear me out, not because I crowded the decision." He tilts his head toward the quiet suite, where a lamp glows on a side table and the rest remains dim. "Tell me what part of this night still belongs to you."