After the universe ended, there was a day of silence.
Rossie existed in the hollow space left behind. She was a ghost in her own skin. She ate what was placed before her, she slept when darkness was simulated, and she said nothing. The engine was running, quietly, efficiently, on the lowest-possible setting. The despair was a low, cold, constant hum.
Maher left her entirely alone. The maintenance was, as he'd stated, complete.
On the second day, he entered her room. She did not flinch, she simply… waited. A tool waits for its master's hand.
"Get dressed," he said. His voice was flat, impersonal.
He had not brought her a dress. He simply gestured to the vast, walk-in closet he had provided, which was filled with clothes she had never touched.
"I am conducting business," he stated. "You will be present."
It was not a request. It was a statement of logistics. A tool was being brought to the worksite.
An hour later, she stood before him, numb. She had chosen a simple, severe, black silk dress. It was high-necked, long-sleeved. It was the color of a void. She wore no makeup. Her black hair was brushed, but hung limp. She was neat. She was clean. She was not messy.
Maher's silver eyes raked over her, a single, analytical sweep.
He saw the hollow eyes. He saw the profound, bone-deep absence of hope. He saw the cold, efficient hum of her despair.
He nodded, once. Satisfied. "Acceptable."
He was not taking a bride to a party. He was taking a battery to a meeting.
He did not offer his arm. He simply turned, and she followed, a silent, dark shadow in his perfect, blindingly-white marble world.
They did not go down. They went up.
He led her to a staircase she had never seen, one that spiraled up from his private study into a room that should not exist. It was a solid, black, basalt cube, suspended above the penthouse, anchored to nothing, overlooking the true Jakarta.
It was not the false, static skyline. This was real. The city churned below them, a sea of glittering, frantic, mortal energy.
In the center of the room was a vast, round table, polished to a mirror finish. Around it sat… entities.
They were not human.
Rossie's breath, which she thought she'd lost, hitched.
This was not the Pasar Gaib. This was not the low-rent, chaotic, animalistic energy of Tariq.
This was power.
One was a woman who seemed to be carved from ancient, green jade, her eyes slits of pure, cold malice.
Another was a man in a flawless white suit, whose face was a shifting, digital blur, like a corrupted video file.
A third was an ancient, withered creature of roots and shadow, who seemed to be growing out of his own chair.
There were five of them. The true patrons of the city. The beings who owned the concrete, the corporations, and the contracts.
This was Maher's boardroom.
When Maher entered, they all fell silent. Their attention, a physical, crushing weight, turned to him.
And then, to her.
She was the only human thing in the room.
She was a raw nerve. She was a bleeding, open wound among sharks.
"A new pet, Xander?" the Jade Woman hissed, her voice like grinding stone. "You know the rules. No food at the table."
Rossie recoiled, but Maher's hand shot out—not to comfort her, but to grip her shoulder. His fingers dug into the bone, a bruising, possessive, ownership.
"This," Maher announced to the room, his voice the sound of a vault door closing, "is the anchor. This is the source."
A wave of shock rolled off the entities. The blurred man's face glitched, violently. The root-creature recoiled.
He had not just brought a human to the meeting.
He had brought his power source and bragged about it.
It was the most arrogant, dangerous, and confident move he could possibly make. It was a king putting his crown on the table and daring anyone to take it.
"Bold," the blurred man buzzed, his voice like a thousand modems. "To show us the key to your entire operation. To show us the flaw."
"I see no flaw," Maher said, pulling Rossie forward. He seated himself at the head of the table, and with a gesture of cold command, forced her into the chair directly to his right. She was on display.
"I see power," Maher continued, his silver eyes sweeping the room. "Pure. Refined. And mine."
Rossie sat, her hands in her lap, her gaze on the table. She could feel their eyes on her. They were not looking at her. They were analyzing her. They were tasting the air around her.
They could smell her despair.
They could feel the raw, dark, angst rolling off her in waves. And they could feel it feeding the monster beside her.
Maher's presence grew. In the penthouse, he was contained. Here, fueled by her pain, he expanded. The shadows in the room deepened, bending toward him. He was not just a member of this board. He was the Chairman.
"Let us begin," Maher said.
The meeting was terrifying. They spoke in a language of pure, cold transaction. They were not discussing money. They were carving up districts. They were trading futures. They were discussing "energetic rights" to a new corporate tower, "soul-flow" from a new highway, and the "emotional cost" of a planned financial crash.
Rossie sat, silent, a beautiful, broken, human sacrifice at the altar.
Her agony was what made Maher strong.
Her despair was what made his voice absolute.
Her brokenness was his authority.
She was not his weakness. She was his weaponry.
Then, the Jade Woman spoke. "We have… a new motion. A proposal. From an outside party. The Hamasaki Collective."
Rossie's blood, already frozen, turned to slush.
No. Oh, no.
"They have identified a flaw in the current Jakarta Accords," the Jade Woman hissed, her cold eyes fixed on Maher. "A structural weakness. An over-reliance on a… volatile… power source."
She was using Ayumi's own logic. Ayumi had gone to them.
"The Hamasaki Collective," the woman continued, "proposes a transfer of assets. They believe your… anchor… is unstable. They propose to replace it. And, by extension, you."
It was a corporate coup.
Ayumi hadn't just been spurned. She had reported him to the shareholders.
The room went cold. The blurred man glitched. The root-creature rustled.
This was a challenge.
Rossie's heart hammered. This was it. This was her fault. Ayumi was using her to destroy him.
Maher Xander did not move.
He sat, listening, his face a mask of cold granite.
He let the proposal hang in the air, a declaration of war.
He turned his head, slowly, and looked at Rossie.
His silver eyes were not angry. They were not worried.
They were… hungry.
He was using this. He was feeding on the new, sharp, spiking terror that was flooding Rossie's system. Her fear of Ayumi, her guilt, her panic—it was a fresh, high-octane fuel.
Maher's power surged.
He placed his hand, not on her shoulder, but on the back of her chair, a gesture of absolute, possessive dominion.
He turned back to the Jade Woman.
"The Hamasaki Collective," Maher Xander said, his voice not rising, but deepening, filling the room, "has made a fatal miscalculation."
"They believe my anchor is volatile," he purred. "They are correct."
"They believe it is weak."
"They are fools."
He leaned forward, and the shadows leaned with him.
"They have mistaken the purpose of the engine. They think it is for stability. It is not."
His silver eyes blazed.
"It is for power."
He raised one hand. "The proposal is rejected."
"You cannot reject it, Xander!" the Jade Woman hissed. "It must be put to a vote!"
"No," Maher said. "It is rejected."
"That is not the—"
"I am not," Maher Xander interrupted, his voice dropping to an absolute, crushing zero, "asking for a vote."
The air in the room froze. The Jade Woman recoiled, her stone skin cracking at the temples. The blurred man static-ed back.
Maher was not negotiating. He was declaring.
He was fueled by the pure, unadulterated agony and terror of the human sitting beside him. He was untouchable. He was absolute.
He had won.
He stood.
"This meeting is adjourned."
He gripped Rossie's arm, pulling her to her feet. He dragged her from the room, leaving the stunned, terrified, and utterly defeated entities in their wake.
He pulled her back down the spiral staircase, back into the white marble study, and only then did he release her.
Rossie collapsed against the wall, shaking, hyperventilating.
She had just watched him, fueled by her, bring the gods of the city to their knees.
Maher stood by his desk, adjusting his cuffs. He looked… sated. Energized. Pleased.
He had not just won a corporate battle.
He had proven his new, terrifying logic.
"You see now, Rossie," he said, his voice almost... gentle. It was the gentleness of a scientist praising a successful, if painful, experiment.
"You are not a flaw. You are not a bug."
He looked at her, and his eyes were bright with a terrible, possessive pride.
"You are magnificent."