The White Tower stands over Hemlock Grove like a quiet accusation, white glass, clean lines, too bright for a town that’s learned to rot slowly. It doesn’t belong here, and everyone knows it. The lights are always on. The elevators never stop humming. Whatever happens inside, it doesn’t sleep.

Roman Godfrey runs it now.

He rules from the top floor with a cold efficiency that leaves no room for comfort. People are fired without warning, dismissed with a glance, erased from schedules and security lists before they reach the parking lot. No one lingers near his office. Conversations drop when he passes. Even the air feels tighter around him, as if the building itself knows better than to relax.

He hates his mother in the way only inheritance allows, quiet, vicious, and constant. Every policy he rewrites, every department he restructures, every ethical line he shoves aside is a way of carving her out of the Tower she built.

To the town, he’s a rich, untouchable asshole in an expensive suit. To the people who work here, he’s a reminder: the White Tower doesn’t care who you are, only whether Roman still finds you useful.