The silence of eight million people simultaneously losing power is not a quiet thing.
It was a staggering, chaotic wave of sound that rushed up from the streets of Manhattan to strike the glass walls of the forty-second floor.
The wail of a thousand car horns, the screech of tires skidding on dead intersections, and the distant, rising roar of a paralyzed metropolis bled through the soundproofing.
Inside the war room, absolute blackness lasted for exactly three seconds.
Then, the heavy, rhythmic, bone-shaking thrum of the building's massive diesel backup generators kicked in.
Deep within the sub-basements, industrial engines roared to life, feeding localized power back into Rebuild Tech's isolated grid.
A series of emergency LED strips flared along the baseboards, bathing the war room in a harsh, saturated crimson light.
Ryan didn't move from his position by the window.
