Meanwhile, in the most heavily guarded penthouse across the city, high above the sleepless glow of New York, sat the headquarters of the Titled Association. At its very peak, behind reinforced glass and layered security systems that even most A Ranks would struggle to breach, an old man was trying to get some shut-eye.
General Harold, the head of the USA Titled Association.
For him, sleep was a luxury. It ended up being a few scattered hours stolen between endless reports, crisis management, political pressure, and the constant, looming threat of gates and Titled incidents spiraling out of control.
Tonight, he had managed to secure two hours, which was a miracle in itself.
He lay in bed, eyes closed, his breathing steady, his aging body finally allowed a moment of rest.
Then, a sharp vibration echoed from his wrist.
His specialised watch lit up, causing him to frown slightly, but he refused to open his eyes.
But then came another vibration.
And another.
