The city above the battle did not tremble as the streets below did, for its towers stood indifferent, their glass and steel reflecting only light, never truth, never consequence, never the quiet games played behind closed doors.
High within one such tower, where silence held a different weight, where war was not fought with claws but with calculation, two women stood apart from the chaos, untouched yet deeply entangled within it.
The room was dim, lit only by the soft glow of distant city lights bleeding through wide windows, casting long shadows that stretched across polished floors like quiet witnesses.
Celeste Di Maio stood near the glass, her posture composed, her hands resting lightly against the cool surface, her reflection steady though her eyes betrayed the movement of thought beneath it.
"…she's too strong," she said, her voice soft, though it carried no doubt, only observation sharpened into certainty.
