POV: Elena The jet’s cabin was a high-altitude pressure cooker, vibrating with a frequency that set my nerves on fire. Outside the reinforced windows, the New York skyline didn't look like the "City of Light"—it looked like a circuit board on the verge of a total meltdown. Every skyscraper was blinking in a jagged, rhythmic red, a visual pulse that matched the frantic thudding of my own heart. "Elena, look at the grid." Silas’s voice was a low, dangerous rumble. He was standing behind me, his massive hands braced against the back of my leather chair. His heat was a furnace, but even through the Seal, I could feel the cold, sharp edges of his rage. On my laptop screen, the Manhattan power map was being swallowed by a spreading, necrotic green stain. "Julian didn't just upload the sequence," I hissed, my fingers flying across the keys with a clinical, terrifying speed. "He turned Vane Tower into a broadcast tower. He’s using our internal server
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