The Manhattan morning was a tapestry of steel and silence. High above the churning currents of Park Avenue, the eighty-eighth floor of the Arcadia Global Headquarters stood like a lighthouse of crystalline intent. The winter had finally broken, leaving behind a sky so clear it felt fragile, like a sheet of hand-blown glass stretched over the jagged teeth of the skyline.
Hana Wijaya-Raka stood by the floor-to-ceiling window of her office, her fingers traced against the cool surface. In her hand, she held a single ceramic mug, the steam from the dark Sumatran roast rising in a slow, rhythmic spiral. She wasn't looking at the real-time heatmaps of the European energy markets or the fluctuating yields of the South American corridor. She was looking at the way the light caught the gaps between
