In the gilded confines of the presidential suite at the Imperial Palace Hotel, Spencer Hunt reclined in a deep leather armchair, swirling a glass of thirty-year-old scotch. As Jason Zane finished relaying the news of the zoning obstruction, a thin, dismissive smile played across Spencer’s lips. It was the smile of a man who viewed the world from thirty thousand feet, where the struggles of ants were merely a curious distraction.
"So," Spencer chuckled, the ice clinking musically in his glass. "They truly believe a petty bureaucratic hurdle at the City Planning Authority can stop a project of this magnitude? Is it that they are genuinely this stupid, or is this some pathetic attempt at a 'grand strategy'?"
He shook his head, the amusement in his eyes cooling into a familiar, aristocratic
