Vincent's POV

The air in the sanctuary of the high-rise penthouse tasted of ozone and expensive tobacco. It was 4 AM, the hour where the city held its breath, suspended between the dying echoes of the night and the first grey smudge of dawn. Vincent sat perched in his throne—a monolithic slab of obsidian leather and brushed steel—his silhouette carved against the panoramic glass that overlooked the sleeping metropolis. He didn't look at the city. His gaze remained locked on the wall of monitors before him.