It was a stormy night around Venture Tower. Sebastian LaCroix stood at the window of his penthouse, surveying the city below him. All of Los Angeles seemed to cower beneath the lightning, bowing (however reluctantly) to his dominion. But he felt a sickening unease gnawing at his soul. Something was wrong. What was it? The insolence of the Primogens, the squabbles with the Sabbat, the growing unrest among the Anarchs...or perhaps something else, something deeper? He tried to put it out of his mind. These were, after all, the trials one could expect as a great leader: constants threats to one's own control. To dance along a razor's edge, evading those threats, was his specialty. But the harder he tried to push down his anxiety, the worse he felt.

The door to his gilded reception hall swung open, and Sebastian turned, arranging his features into a cool, condescending smile.

"I'll take the liberty of assuming you have an excellent reason for imposing on my time.... This is correct, yes?"