The absolute, unnerving silence of the Level 1 Penthouse was broken only by the soft, rhythmic clink of a silver spoon against porcelain.
Arthur Vance stood in his pristine, sterile white executive lounge. The ambient temperature was locked at a mathematically perfect sixty-eight degrees, cooling the crisp, starched fabric of his tailored suit. He sipped his pre-Integration coffee and looked out through the massive, floor-to-ceiling holographic window.
Below him, Sector 2 was a bleeding wound. The pristine daylight of the Platinum Concourse was gone, replaced by the dark, rotating red strobes of emergency backups.
Vance did not see dead Praetorians. He did not see the terror of the upper-tier residents stumbling in the dark. As his manicured fingers traced the master-tier UI interface floating over the glass, he saw only a massive, unauthorized deficit in his refined mana reserves.
