Inside the unfinished loft in Aurelia's northern commercial district, the air was thick with the sharp scent of wet paint and stale coffee.
Three Bloomberg terminals sat on a heavy plywood sheet supported by metal sawhorses, their glowing screens casting a cold, blue light over the raw concrete floor. Strands of gray data cables snaked past unboxed monitor stands and empty cardboard boxes.
The room was dead silent except for the frantic, rhythmic clatter of computer mice and the heavy breathing of six young analysts.
Daphne Jin stood frozen behind Dult's chair, her eyes glued to the spot gold chart. The historic sixty-pip red candle had already settled into a flat, horizontal crawl, but the shock of the move still hung in the air like smoke.
"He didn't post," Dult whispered, his fingers trembling as he refreshed the LOOP portal for the twentieth time in two minutes. "The double-top cycle completed... and he didn't drop a single entry coordinate."
