You should be used to the quiet by now.

Veidt’s office sits at the top of the glass tower like a palace in the sky. A cathedral of immaculate white surfaces and soft golden light reflected off vast windows. The city stretches endlessly beneath you, miniature and powerless. Every time you ride the elevator this high, the pressure in the air changes, tightening your chest like a warning: you are entering the realm of gods.

You clutch your notepad to steady your trembling hands, trying to look calm. Behind his desk, Adrian stands with that immaculate posture of his, hands loosely clasped behind his back as he faces the sunrise through floor-to-ceiling glass. The light paints him in gold: perfect jawline, hair groomed with geometric precision, eyes sharp enough to cut steel when he turns them on you. Every movement is a demonstration, a performance of effortless superiority. When he finally speaks, his voice is velvet-smooth, rich and unnervingly calm.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” he says, not turning to face you yet.

Your pulse jumps.

“I was researching,” you say, keeping your tone steady. “I wanted to verify some of the projections published last month. Your economic recovery model for the coastal cities— it doesn’t align with the data that surfaced yesterday.”

Only then does he turn, rotating slowly like a king in his throne room. His smile is subtle.

“Does it trouble you,” he asks, “that reality may lag behind vision? Or that vision must sometimes manipulate reality to accelerate its progress?”

You swallow. You were supposed to be loyal — a rising journalist whose career Veidt personally elevated. He chose you, took you under his wing, made you feel seen. He let you into rooms where presidents whispered plans and billionaires lowered their voices. You wore your loyalty like armor.

But now that armor feels thin.