"If you have no hater, I'm in a different life, but I know I'll find a way to hate you," the man says, his voice steady and cold, directed toward Azarias.

  They stand in a massive room. behind him, resembles a library. The shelves filled with books extend to the second floor, attached to a grand, spiraling staircase behind Azarias. Azarias sits comfortably in a rolling chair at the center of the room, his presence commanding despite his casual demeanor.

  A large, sleek desk stretches before him, cluttered with an array of monitors, each displaying various streams of data. On the desk sits a minute, antique telephone—eerily reminiscent of those used in the early 1900s, its vintage style a stark contrast to the otherwise futuristic aesthetic of the room.

  The polished metallic walls reflect soft hues of blue and silver, casting an otherworldly glow across the space. It feels like a merging of centuries, where the past meets an advanced, almost clinical future.

  "I don't really care," Azarias replies, his tone indifferent. "You're on the list of—" He pauses, tilting his head toward one of the monitors, his eyes scanning the display with mild amusement. "Wait… another 400 people said they hate me. Oh." He smirks, pausing again to glance at a particular comment. "One was really into the gig." Azarias lets out a brief laugh, his shoulders relaxing.

  Without a second thought, he rolls his chair effortlessly to the side of the room, the smooth movement accentuating the sleekness of his surroundings. He halts in front of a large, see-through wall.

  It's made of polsium, a near-indestructible material that gleams faintly under the lights.

  He gazes out at the breathtaking view beyond—an endless stretch of skyscrapers and high-rise buildings that seem to pierce the heavens.

  The lights from the buildings below shimmer like stars, and the city hums with life. Despite the brilliance of the landscape, it's the night that truly captivates him.

  "Polsium is sturdy," he remarks absently, his reflection faint in the transparent material. His eyes trace the distant horizon, where the neon lights flicker against the dark canvas of the night sky.

  The magnificent scene is both awe-inspiring and cold, a world built on steel and technology. Yet, amidst the towering structures, the unmistakable silhouette of the Stem stands tall, its golden colour cutting through the darkness like a beacon.

  "Everything's much better at night," Azarias says softly, almost to himself, as the city lights below cast a glow upon his face. He takes a moment to absorb the beauty, then turns his attention back to the man, who stands motionless, his eyes locked on Azarias.

  Though the man curses Azarias, his body remains rigid, as if some unseen force is keeping him still, his hatred ingrained but unspoken. His eyes flicker with suppressed rage, yet he makes no move to leave, unwilling or unable to disobey the silent command to remain in place.

  The room itself, despite its grandeur, feels almost small compared to the sprawling skyscraper it resides in. It's a minor room in a colossal building, one that houses countless other chambers, each likely serving a different purpose.

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  The entrance is lined with an array of exotic plants, each of a different species, their vibrant green leaves a stark contrast to the cold, metallic tones of the room. Their subtle presence brings a hint of life into the otherwise sterile environment.

  Azarias's outfit speaks volumes compared to the man's own attire. Azarias is dressed in an ensemble that radiates simplicity, yet is distinctly modern—a yellow sleeveless top paired with long, baggy sweatpants. His attire is an extreme deviation from the elaborate, formal outfits he typically wears, especially when compared to the one he donned the previous day. It's as if his current look is meant to mock the seriousness of the situation.

  "You can leave," Azarias finally says, his voice dismissive, not even bothering to make eye contact as he rolls his chair back toward his desk.

  The man scoffs but obeys, turning sharply on his heel before striding out of the room, his exit a silent rebellion against the hold Azarias has over him.

  Azarias sighs deeply, the sound almost lost in the mechanical hum of the room. He turns his gaze back to the view, his eyes focusing on a specific point far below—the 1,307th floor. A small smile tugs at his lips as he observes the area.

  "He's a pesky one," he murmurs, speaking of Henri as though they were old friends—or enemies. It's hard to tell which. Rolling his chair back to his desk, he lets his gaze fall on the countless monitors before him. Each one flickers with information, yet his attention remains divided.

  His brown eyes flash gold as a soft beep announces an incoming call. He glances at the monitor, his expression unreadable.

  "Ah," he mutters, recognizing the caller.

  Outside the Room

  The elevator is an ordinary sight—gray doors, multi-colored buttons, nothing out of the ordinary. Yet the scene inside is anything but normal. The air inside the confined space is thick with the metallic scent of blood. The man who had just been in the room with Azarias now lies dismembered, his body mutilated beyond recognition. Blood splatters the walls, painting the sterile gray in deep red, and his head is nowhere to be found. His remains are scattered grotesquely, his chest sliced open with chilling precision. It's clear this was not an act of rage but one of cold calculation.

  Back in the Room

  "Do not be afraid, for she was set apart for you before the world was made. You will save her, and she will go with you. I assume you will have children by her," Azarias says slowly, his voice monotone, devoid of any emotion, as he speaks to the person on the other end of the line. His words hang in the air like a dark prophecy,

  Without waiting for a response, he ends the call. His eyes drift back to the glowing monitors before him, his fingers tapping idly on the desk. A faint smile curls on his lips as he stares at the data streams.

  "People are really fascinating creatures," he says softly, almost to himself, as though marveling at the complexity of human nature.

  He types out a quick message, sending it off with little thought:

  [Rolls-worth has vowed to invest in hiring and retaining better guards with ranks included (and increase their protections from legal liability), push policies like 'stop and frisk,' direct the DOJ 'to dismantle every gang, street crew, and drug network in Ghent,' deploy federal guards including the higher ranks 'to restore law and order' when local guards 'refuse to act,' and impose the death penalty for drug dealers, drug cartels, and human traffickers. That is good in theory but practically it is bad, if you want i can send links.]

  Moments later, a response flashes on the screen:

  [Suck it up! Church voter, that is what we need!]

  Azarias stares at the message in disbelief. His fingers hover over the keyboard as if contemplating a retort but then, with a sigh, he leans back in his chair.

  Before he can react further, the door bursts open, and a woman storms into the room, her face pale, her breath coming in short gasps.

  "The man is—" she starts, her voice frantic.

  "Dead. I know," Azarias interrupts calmly, his eyes still glued to the monitor as he types out his response.

  The woman falters, unsure of what to say next, her eyes darting to the screens before her, then back to Azarias. The blood-curdling scene in the elevator is fresh in her mind, but she remains silent, knowing that in this world, death is rarely surprising.

  Azarias glances up at her briefly, his expression calm, almost bored. "People always think they can control things," he mutters softly, "but they rarely understand the game they're playing."