The night sky over the metropolis was a sheet of wet obsidian, heavy with low-hanging fog that swallowed the upper spires of the commercial district.
At 01:30 CET, the monolithic glass pillar of Vance Tower pierced the dark clouds like a silver dagger. Fifty stories above the street, the penthouse suite was a silent museum of minimalist glass, brushed steel, and cold white marble.
Evelyn stood in the center of the vast, high-ceilinged room, her reflection framed against the fog-slicked glass. She wore a tailored black suit that accentuated her lean silhouette, her hair pulled back into a tight, severe knot. In her right hand, she held a sleek silver metal briefcase containing the ruggedized terminal and the Trojan-corrupted master drive.
Across the marble floor, seated behind a massive
