The glass tower did not reflect the city as it was, but as it wished to be seen, polished, untouchable, distant from the mess below, and within its highest chamber Celeste Di Maio stood before the wide pane of glass with her fingers lightly resting against its surface, her posture elegant, composed, though her gaze held something far sharper than the calm she displayed.
The city moved beneath her.
Unaware.
Exposed.
"People are so easy," she murmured softly, her voice smooth, almost thoughtful, as though she spoke not with disdain but with quiet amusement, her lips curving faintly while her eyes remained cold, calculating, "they don't need truth, they need a story that feels right."
Behind her, the door opened without urgency, the sound soft against the silence, and Isabella stepped inside with measured grace, her heels clicking lightly against the polished floor, her chin lifted, though something restless flickered beneath her composed exterior.
