Up on Lancaster Tower, the wind was so strong that it sliced flesh and clothing like a surgeon's knife. Indications of impending storms that would cleanse the city were carried by the aroma of ozone and rain throughout the night. Below, the earth resembled a circuit board, with pulsating lights and blinking lines representing the intricate network of human ambition. There were eighty-three levels above ground level.
Above them, on a rooftop, history hung precariously; the city below was bustling with activity, but they were oblivious to this. Travelers hurried down walkways to vital locations, as concrete and steel roadways carried traffic. Where families dined together or individuals toiled away late into the night, screens illuminated the windows. They had no idea that this invisible f
