The city moved at its own relentless rhythm.
Cars surged through slick streets, horns blaring. Glass towers reflected each other in an endless hall of mirrors, neon lights flickering against wet pavement. It was a machine that never stopped grinding — and one my father had helped build.
But today, I wasn't moving through it as his son. Not as his heir.
Today, I was moving through it as something else. A man chasing a vision no one would believe.
Marcus drove, hands steady on the wheel, his gaze sweeping across traffic like a soldier scanning a battlefield. He hadn't asked again where we were going — not until the silence stretched too long.
"You should be in the boardroom," he said finally, his voice low, gravelly. "The directors expect you. They're circling, waiting for blood. If you don't show your face, they'll eat you alive."
"They can wait," I said.
He grunted. "They won't."
"They'll see what kind of leader I am soon enough."
"Leader?" He shot me a look. "You're chasing a fantasy. What you're doing — it's not leadership. It's… something else."
I didn't answer. My sketch lay folded in my pocket, edges worn from handling it too much. The sanctuary. My father's empire had been born from boardrooms and contracts. Mine would be born from this.
Marcus shook his head, but didn't press. That was his way — he didn't need to agree. He just needed to watch my back.
The car stopped in front of a building wedged between towers like a forgotten relic. Its brick walls were streaked with soot, windows smudged and old. It looked out of place amid the sleek glass and steel around it — small, stubborn, defiant.
"This is it?" Marcus asked, eyebrow raised.
I nodded. "Dr. Elara Voss."
The name had surfaced in my father's records. She had been an architect, an engineer, a designer who created structures that seemed to defy gravity and logic. Underground railways that curved like rivers. Aquariums that bent glass like waves. She was a visionary — until she walked away. Refused contracts, turned down billion-dollar projects, and disappeared into this forgotten corner of the city.
My father had tried to hire her once. She had refused him.
That was why I trusted her.
Inside, the building smelled of oil and coffee, steel and dust. Drafting tables were scattered with blueprints and models that looked more like living things than structures. Towers twisted like seashells, bridges arched like spines, domes bloomed like flowers.
A woman hunched over a drafting board near the back, hair tied in a messy knot, glasses perched low on her nose. Her pen moved fast across paper, sketching lines that curved and split like veins.
She didn't look up when the door creaked shut.
"Whatever Hale is offering," she said, her voice sharp, "my answer is still no."
I froze. Marcus raised an eyebrow, lips twitching.
"How did you—" I began.
She set her pen down and finally looked up. Her eyes were sharp, dark, and tired, the kind that missed nothing.
"You've got his jaw," she said flatly. "And his arrogance. Walking in without knocking."
I swallowed hard. "I'm not my father."
Her smirk was humorless. "That's what they all say."
I stepped forward and pulled the folded sketch from my pocket. My hands trembled, but I laid it on the desk anyway. The tower, the underground levels, the habitats.
She barely glanced at it at first. Then her brow furrowed. She leaned closer, tracing the lines with her finger.
"This isn't corporate," she muttered. "This is… madness."
"Not madness," I said quickly. "Vision."
She shot me a look, skeptical but curious. "An underground sanctuary? Disguised as an office building?"
"Yes."
"Do you have any idea what kind of engineering nightmare this would be? Ventilation alone would kill you. Structural integrity? Water management? Not to mention cost. Do you even know what you're asking?"
"I know it's impossible," I admitted. "That's why I came to you."
Her eyes narrowed. "You think flattery will get me on board?"
"No," I said. "Belief will."
For a moment, silence stretched between us. She tapped the edge of the drawing with her pen, lips pursed.
"You know what your father wanted me for?" she asked.
I nodded. "Another tower. Bigger. Shinier. A monument to himself."
"And you?"
"A monument to life," I said without hesitation.
Her gaze held mine, weighing my words, measuring the truth of them.
"You understand," she said slowly, "that if this fails, it won't just bury your money. It'll bury you. Literally."
"I understand."
Her lips twitched into something caught between a smirk and a frown. "You're either insane… or exactly the kind of insane I've been waiting for."
"So you'll help me?"
Elara stood, gathering the sketch in her hands. "I'll look into it. That's not a yes. Yet. But if I do this, you follow my lead. No cutting corners. No shortcuts. No compromises."
"It's not a vanity project," I said firmly. "It's everything."
She studied me for a long moment. Then she nodded once. "Then let's see if your father's fortune can build something he never could."
Back in the car, Marcus shook his head, cigarette already between his lips.
"She didn't say yes," he muttered.
"She didn't say no," I countered.
He snorted smoke. "You realize you're gambling billions on the word of a woman who thinks gravity is optional."
I looked out the window. The city glared back at me, alive and merciless.
"No," I said quietly. "I'm gambling on the future."