The Shard loomed over Manhattan like a jagged shard of obsidian glass, stitching itself into the storm-heavy clouds above the city. Lightning pulsed behind the skyline in distant flashes, illuminating the tower in cold silver bursts that made it look less like a building and more like a weapon pointed at heaven itself.
Inside its illuminated veins, a different kind of war was unfolding.
Not with bullets.
Not with explosions.
But with narratives.
With faces.
With identity.
Julian Vance had reclaimed the "Saint" from the hospital only hours earlier, relocating Elena back into the Sterling penthouse under a level of "protection" so absolute it bordered on imprisonment. Armed guards patrolled every corridor. Cameras watched every angle. The elevators required triple biometric authorization.
To the world, Elena Vance was a fragile survivor recovering from trauma.
To Julian—
she was the final piece of the script.
And Julian believed he had already won.
