My face floats in the glass, overlaying the blinking lights of traffic and the hunched profile of the gasworks in the distance.
I study myself, the lines at the edge of my mouth, the way my hair falls in a shape that is both deliberate and accidental.
I look tired, but I also look permanent.
The intercom buzzes.
"You have a call from the council," Lena says, her voice piped through a system that could withstand a small-scale missile attack.
"I'll take it here," I say and press the button to clear the line.
A man's voice, smooth but not oily.
"Keira. Congratulations. The transition looks seamless from the outside."
"That's the point," I say.
He laughs, a sound that could be sincere or could be loaded with C-4.
"The Chairman will want a photo op. Maybe at the new port facility. Something to show there are no hard feelings."
I keep my voice even.
"Tell the Chairman I will be there. But I don't do hard feelings. I do business."
He laughs again, then hangs up without a goodbye.
I sit for a minute, running the conversation through my head, then buzz Lena.
"Anything?" I ask.
"Nothing yet," she replies.
"Fiachra has the perimeter. Ruairí is in the old vault with the security team."
I close my eyes and imagine the old vault—the walls lined with cash, the smell of gun oil and dust, the memory of nights spent counting out the future in stacks of twenties and fifties.
It is still there, buried under layers of new tech and old secrets.
I have not set foot in it since the war ended.
I stand, stretch the kink out of my lower back, and walk to the window.
The glass is cool under my palm.
Somewhere out there, a thousand men and women are moving at my command, every one of them waiting for the next directive.
The thought should terrify me. It does not.
In the corridor, two men wait.
One is new, fresh out of somewhere, face like a slab of bread, suit too big for his frame.
The other is old, a Crowley loyalist from back when the only thing you had to be loyal to was the next meal or the next fix.
They look at me as I pass, but the new one glances away first, his gaze dropping to the carpet.
The old one meets my eye, but not as a challenge—just an acknowledgment.
