Under the blazing afternoon sun, the top floor of The Zenith Tower gleamed like a blade suspended over the skyline. The executive office alone measured nearly nine hundred square feet, wrapped on two sides by floor-to-ceiling glass that overlooked the entire stretch of Haven City—the silver ribbon of the Haven River, the clustered spires of the Financial District, and the distant cranes near Haven Port Authority swinging lazily in the haze. From this altitude, the city resembled a meticulously arranged model—neat, geometric, deceptively manageable—its chaos softened by distance, its ambitions compressed into patterns of light and shadow.Conrad Stone stood with his hands clasped behind his back, posture straight as a drawn spear, his silhouette reflected faintly in the glass. From this height, the city looked orderly, almost obedient. Traffic reduced to veins of light. People shrank to anonymous motion. Power, he knew, was always clearer from above. It was not