By dawn, the smoke that had risen from House Maverick's eastern warehouse district had thinned into a sickly grey haze, settling into the sky over the Southern District.
On every public terminal and private feed, the loops were identical: the skeletons of four collapsed skyscrapers, the flickering orange of secondary fires that refused to be extinguished, and the frantic, silent movement of emergency drones. The financial markets had dropped… fallen.
Neutral territories—the buffer zones that kept the High Houses from tearing each other apart—were officially fortifying their borders, raising kinetic shields and activating old defense protocols.
The city was holding its breath, waiting for the Black House to claim the kill.
Inside the primary board room, the atmosphere was silent.
