The night stretched across New York like a polished sheet of obsidian — cold, gleaming, alive with distant movement. From the seventy-second floor of the Langston Building, Jonathan Reed stood before the wide glass pane, hands resting loosely in his pockets, his reflection ghosting faintly against the glittering skyline. The city pulsed below him — every light, every siren, every human noise — and yet none of it touched him. His world was quieter, measured in precision and restraint.
Behind him, the low hum of the office whispered — a single lamp burning gold on the marble desk, a decanter of untouched whiskey, two chairs facing each other like opponents waiting for the first move.
It was almost midnight when the intercom crackled softly.
“Sir,” Miles’ calm voice came through. “He’s arr
