The atmosphere inside the VanceTech penthouse had shifted from a state of high-stakes tension to one of absolute, eerie stillness.
It was 16:45 hours. The late afternoon sun cast long, golden shadows across the sprawling, immaculate command center. Elara Vance sat at the head of the pristine glass conference table, a cup of untouched Darjeeling tea cooling beside her. The 8k holographic array, which had previously displayed the hostile crimson wedge of Pier 88, was currently suspended in a holding pattern, projecting a slow-rotating, translucent globe of the Earth.
For the past six hours, the relentless barrage of environmental injunctions, cease-and-desist orders, and legal threats from Julian Cross’s Geneva headquarters had abruptly, inexplicably ceased. It was as if Obsidian Freight h
