The Exile in the Palace
The penthouse of the Obsidian Tower was a masterpiece of glass and silence. From the 110th floor, the lights of New York looked like a circuit board, a sprawling, electric map of desires and debts. Julian stood by the window, a glass of vintage scotch in his hand, watching the city breathe. He owned the banks that owned the streets. He owned the politicians who wrote the laws. He owned the air...
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