Unlike the outer hall, the décor in the sanctum was both tasteful and minimalistic. The foyer was well-lit and furnished with cozy-looking sofas, the floor covered with a simple cream carpet. There was a large bar near the back, and beside it stood a winding staircase with intricate, off-white railings.

One of the sofas was occupied by a tall, balding man who had an escort writhing in each arm. He had a joint between his fingers, but seemed too distracted by the amorous attentions of his companions to smoke it.

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As Abhijat passed the trio with Fasih in tow, the man turned to leer at them, the corners of his chapped lips twisting in a smile that made Abhijat’s palms itch with the urge to punch him.

Tearing his eyes away from the drug-addled kids – neither of whom could’ve been above eighteen – he swore to himself that he’d burn this hellhole down to the ground before he left the city.

Summoning one of the attendants who kept discretely to the shadows, he held out his keycard and asked her to direct him to the Royal Suite.