The abandoned industrial warehouses along the Brooklyn waterfront were wrapped in a heavy, low-hanging mist that rolled off the East River. To any passing human vessel, the sprawling brick structures appeared to be nothing more than the decaying remnants of New York’s old shipping era—dark, silent, and forgotten. But behind the reinforced steel doors and the multi-layered insulation arrays Jaxon had installed, the interior of Warehouse 7 had been transformed into a pristine, high-tech sanctuary of science and sovereign power.
The air inside did not smell of rust or river mud. It was crisp, vibrating with the sharp, clinical notes of eucalyptus and white tea, heavily laced with the hum of localized alchemical reactions.
Kiara stood on an elevated steel mezzanine overlooking the main floor
