The basement of the Sterling Heights tower was no longer a maintenance floor. It had been transformed into a temple of glass, steel, and cold, calculating light.
The Ouroboros Circle didn't look like a cult. They looked like a board of directors—twelve men and women in charcoal grey suits, sitting in a semicircle of floating obsidian chairs. In the center of the room was a chair that looked like a surgical rig, wired into the very bedrock of Manhattan.
"The Bridge has arrived," Arthur Sterling announced, his voice echoing with a hollow, terrifying pride.
I felt Reid's hand tighten on mine. His knuckles were white, his pulse a frantic, protective rhythm against my palm. Behind us, Adriana was leaning on a tactical rail, her breathing shallow, her eyes fixed on our father with a hatred so pure it seemed to keep her upright despite her burns.
