The conference room had been designed to intimidate. Not in a cheap, ostentatious way with gilded ceilings or marble statues, but through architectural precision, through a coldness and clarity that didn’t leave any doubt that mistakes weren’t anticipated here. The glass walls stretched from floor to ceiling, offering a flawless view of Manhattan’s upper districts, those zones that lay clean, safe, and brightly lit like a promise made exclusively to the wealthy and defended with force. With force and lies.

  The table at the center of the room consisted of a single block of dark composite material, seamless and immaculate, long enough to seat twenty people. That evening, only twelve sat at it.

  Twelve men and women who collectively controlled supply chains, indirectly commanded armies, steered markets, and pressured governments. They had one thing in common. They all wanted more. Much more. People who were tired of lobbying because it had become too slow, too inefficient, too cowardly for them. They didn’t want to operate in the shadows anymore, didn’t want to bribe, threaten, or negotiate to bend laws in their favor. They wanted to write laws. More than that, they wanted to decide what the new world order would look like, and who’d be allowed to survive in it.

  And yet none of them dared to speak.

  At the head of the room stood Zara Thandros. A tall, slender woman with a blond pageboy cut. She hadn’t taken a seat. She never did. Sitting meant negotiating, and that wasn’t why she was here.

  Her black coat hung perfectly from her shoulders, its sharp lines cutting through the sterile brightness of the room as if it were part of the architecture itself. She wore no jewelry, no visible tech implants, nothing that might distract from her. Her light hair was pulled back tightly, revealing a face that might’ve been beautiful if all warmth hadn’t been stripped from it. Her ice-blue eyes rested motionless on the holographic projection above the table.

  Curves. Numbers. Forecasts. The future reduced to obedient data.

  “The situation is… delicate,” a man with a perfectly knotted tie said at last, clearing his throat as if he had to remind himself that he was allowed to speak.

  He was head of global security cooperation, a former general with broad shoulders and a voice that’d been trained for decades to give orders, not ask for permission. And yet there was an unspoken question in his gaze as he looked toward Zara. May I?

  Zara didn’t acknowledge him.

  “Delicate,” she repeated softly, almost thoughtfully.

  The word lingered in the room as if it had weight, as if it were expanding, thickening the air. Several of those present shifted uneasily in their chairs without quite knowing why.

  “Yes,” the man continued, sweat now visibly glistening at his hairline. “With the new birth-control measures, public sentiment’s becoming increasingly volatile. Certain activist groups are organizing protests, publishing internal data, spreading rumors about secret programs.”

  “Activists,” Zara interrupted calmly.

  This time she turned her head slowly in his direction, the movement so controlled it felt like a deliberate display of power.

  The general swallowed.

  “Idealists,” he corrected hastily. “People who believe they can save the system by hiding refugees, taking in the Stranded, and turning moral superiority into a weapon. The protests are concentrated primarily in New York, and we’re seeing early signs of internal defection within our own structures.”

  “Out of fear?” Zara asked.

  “Out of conviction,” he replied. “Or what they think is conviction.”

  Zara stepped closer to the table. Her footsteps were soundless, yet the change in the room was immediate, as if the air pressure had dropped.

  “And this,” she said evenly, “concerns you?”

  “No, Ms. Thandros,” the man answered too quickly. “Of course not. But our military partners are asking for assurances that your initiative—”

  “…delivers,” Zara finished for him as a barely perceptible smile touched her lips.

  The general’s shoulders sagged slightly. He didn’t notice.

  “Assurances are a relic of the past,” Zara said, and with a minimal movement of her fingers, the projection shifted. New images appeared. Urban conflict simulations. Optimized troop movements. Scenarios with reduced casualties and maximum control. “People don’t want promises. They want security. And security isn’t assured. It’s enforced.”

  A woman at the table, head of the ethics division and primarily responsible for press conferences and pacifying rhetoric, cleared her throat uncertainly. “Ms. Thandros, with all due respect, the scope of this project raises significant moral and legal concerns. Should the public learn that—”

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  Zara’s gaze hit her like a bullet between the eyes.

  The woman froze as if the ground had been pulled out from under her. Her mouth remained open, words stuck somewhere between impulse and thought, while her hands clenched spasmodically around the armrests.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered at last. “I don’t know why I said that.”

  No one spoke.

  Zara tilted her head slightly and regarded her as if she were a defective exhibit, preserved for a silent, eternal humiliation.

  “Morality,” Zara said calmly, “is a luxury only people can afford who don’t have to make decisions.” She stepped closer. “You were hired to manage our public image, not to think.”

  The woman nodded hastily. “Of course. You’re absolutely right.”

  Zara turned away, and the pressure in the room vanished instantly.

  “Our competition’s weakened,” another participant spoke up, his voice eager, almost relieved. “Europe’s choking on bureaucracy, Germany’s collapsing economically, China’s watching and waiting. A power vacuum’s forming.”

  Zara stepped up to the window and looked out over New York, that burning metropolis where only a few districts had been spared misery, violence, and crime. Gotham had never been an exaggeration. New York in 2035 was the Gotham of the past, born from the dark imagination of Bill Finger and Bob Kane, now revealed as a true vision of the future. Just like flights to Mars. Or the creation of artificial intelligence, which had been strictly outlawed again for five years now.

  “Thandros Corporation doesn’t compete,” she said quietly. “We devour. And replace.”

  Silence. Below, traffic crept like veins pumping blood through the body of the city. Drones shot between the towers. Somewhere far beneath glass and steel, people lived, suffered, loved, starved.

  “The next phase begins as soon as the internal structures are realigned,” she continued. “A change in leadership. Quiet. Efficient. Without chaos.”

  A murmur rippled through the room.

  “Henry Thandros, your father…,” someone began cautiously.

  Zara turned around.

  “…is a man of the past,” she said. “And the past doesn’t have a place in this world anymore. Neither do idealists. My father’s obsolete.”

  No one objected.

  “Internal risks?” the general asked finally. “Henry Thandros has many followers. A large portion of the leaked data comes from his most devoted admirers within the corporation.”

  “All the more reason to eradicate him and every one of his loyal followers. I want the names of all insurgents.”

  A list appeared. Employee profiles. Deviations. Irregularities. One profile remained on screen a fraction of a second longer than the others. A bald man. Pale skin. Almost colorless eyes. Zara’s gaze sharpened.

  “Who’s that?” she asked.

  “Just a factory worker,” the general replied. “Sector D. No prior record. Recently terminated for disrupting production during an uprising.”

  “An uprising?” Zara asked.

  “A minor disturbance. Protocol breach. He caused a scene.”

  Zara stared at the image. “Then why’re you telling me about him?”

  “It’s one of the few incidents since you took over the factory, Ms. Thandros, and …”

  “And?”

  “And this factory worker… he’s apparently well known to your father.”

  “So.” For the first time in the room, something like curiosity flickered across her face. “My father. Henry, you old lunatic. You know this strange, pale, miserable nobody from my factory? Now this is getting interesting,” she murmured.

  “We believe that he’s it.”

  “Believe? Belief’s for religious fanatics. I want facts.”

  “We’re certain.” The general frowned. “However, there is one more issue.”

  “There are no issues. Only solutions.”

  “He’s dead.”

  “Dead?”

  “Killed in a car accident. Shortly after the end of his shift.”

  Zara didn’t answer immediately.

  “There are people,” she said slowly, “who bend easily. And there are people who break.” Her eyes remained fixed on the frozen image. “And then,” she added, “there’re anomalies.” She made a brief hand gesture, and the profile vanished. “We’ll give this poor bastard a second chance,” she said. “We’re not monsters, after all.”

  “Yes, Ms. Thandros.”

  Zara turned back to the table.

  “The world’s afraid,” she said. “And that’s a good thing.” She placed her palms on the table, and several of those present flinched involuntarily. “We offer stability. Order. Security. And in return…”

  She smiled. “…the world’ll be handed to us. The third secret meeting’s adjourned.”

  Chairs moved hastily. No one dared meet her eyes. When the doors closed behind the participants, Zara remained alone in her office fortress.

  Fires consumed streets and ruins, districts long since abandoned, and even from this height they didn’t look like exceptions, but like the city’s natural state. Order existed only where it was enforced through violence.

  Somewhere in this chaos, a man had just lost his job. A man who knew her father.

  Zara Thandros smiled. A smile that didn’t need to prove anything anymore. Slowly, she lowered her gaze, bent her right arm, and opened her fist.

  A flame appeared on her palm as if conjured by magic. Small, unsteady, almost insignificant. The fire was real, and it responded. With every steadying breath, with every rising thought of power, it grew, flared higher, bathing her skin in warmth and gold.

  Anger fed it.

  For a moment, Zara allowed it.

  Then she clenched her hand into a fist again.

  The fire was extinguished instantly. As if it’d never existed.

  It was the beginning of a new era. The world order she’d write. And all those powerful figures she’d invited to this meeting would play their roles in it. Not as partners, but as puppets who believed they were acting of their own free will.

  With an elegant, almost weightless movement, Zara walked to her glass desk. She opened one of the drawers and removed a slim injection whose surface shimmered cold and metallic. The liquid inside glowed faintly like liquid mana.

  Without hesitation, she placed the fine needle against the inside of her wrist, where the veins already showed dark beneath the skin, lines that crept slowly, almost organically, up her arm.

  She pierced the skin.

  As she pressed down the plunger, a soft sigh escaped her, barely more than a breath.

  The counteragent reacted immediately.

  Her new ability wasn’t fully developed yet. It was unstable, and it demanded a price that Zara knew very well. Every use left traces, weakened the body, demanded discipline, control, sacrifice. For now.

  Zara straightened and looked out once more over the burning city.

  Soon, she knew, that price wouldn’t matter anymore.

  Soon, she’d be unstoppable.

  up to 12 chapters in advance on my .

  Sorry, Billy, don’t forget to . Every bit of support helps keep the story alive and moving forward.