The glass tower rose into the night like a blade of polished obsidian, its reflective surface catching fragments of the city below and distorting them into something colder, sharper, less human than the lives it overlooked.
Within its highest chamber, light glowed not warmly but precisely, clean and controlled, illuminating a space where nothing was left to chance and nothing existed without purpose.
Celeste Di Maio stood near the vast window, her posture composed, her hands resting lightly behind her back, though the stillness she held was not ease, but restraint measured to perfection.
The city stretched beneath her, alive with movement, unaware of the quiet recalculations taking place above it, unaware of how close the balance had come to shifting entirely beyond their control.
"She survived," she said quietly.
Her fingers tightened faintly.
The words did not carry shock.
Only confirmation.
