The Manhattan skyline was a jagged crown of silver and glass, etched against a sky so cold and clear it looked like a sheet of polished sapphire. Inside the penthouse on the eighty-eighth floor, the world was silent, save for the rhythmic, muffled hum of the ventilation system and the distant, ghost-like sirens of the city waking up below. Hana Wijaya-Raka stood by the floor-to-ceiling window, her fingers traced against the cool glass. She wasn’t looking at the stock tickers on her tablet or the regional reports from London. She was looking at a single, small photograph tucked into the corner of the window frame—a picture of a small, struggling sapling on a dusty Jakarta roadside.
"You’re doing it again," a voice rumbled softly.
Hana didn't turn. She smiled as she felt the familiar shift
