The executive office was bathed in the cool, blue luminescence of the late-night city skyline. For the first time since the Syndicate’s war had begun, the tension in the room didn't feel like a suffocating shroud; it felt like the static electricity before a massive storm.
Elara stood by the panoramic window, her reflection ghosting against the glass. She looked at her own image and saw someone she barely recognized—a woman who had once navigated the treacherous currents of the board by compromise, now standing as the architect of a politician's destruction.
"You look tired," I said softly, moving to stand behind her, not close enough to crowd her space, but near enough to act as the silent pillar I had become.
"I’m not tired," Elara answered, her gaze not shifting from the city lights.
