Monday Morning at Obsidian Peak
The city was already awake.
Traffic snarled sixty floors below like a metal river. Horns barked. Delivery trucks hissed. Somewhere, a jackhammer rattled concrete into dust. The air beyond the glass shimmered with heat and smog and sunlight fighting for space.
Inside Obsidian Peak, everything was silent. The air was thick with the smell of freshly cleaned soft carpet, polished glass, power and money.
Ares stood before the floor-to-ceiling window, hands clasped behind his back.
Still as a statue.
From this height, the city looked small. Controlled. Like something you could fold into your pocket.
His reflection stared back at him in the glass — dark suit, sharp shoulders, a man built from edges.
Below, people rushed to jobs they hated.
Up here, he decided which of them survived the week.
The door opened with a careful click.
"Boss," Jack said.
His voice always dropped an octave in this office.
Like the walls listened.
