The tower had no name anymore.
Not even on the grid.
Just a shell — thirty-two stories of scorched concrete, shattered helix glass, and hollowed-out signal spines that once carried the digital pulse of the entire city quadrant. Before the Zodiac Re-org. Before the firelines carved every neighborhood into color-coded allegiances. Before the killbox net laced itself into the bones of the skyline.
Now it was a dead nerve in the system.
And Hernan stood on its crown, alone in the wind, watching the ghost walk into the trap.
The rooftop had been sheared open in the war — one half exposed to the air like a broken jawbone, the other still half-intact, windows warped and framing the clouds like the teeth of something starving. The cold bit deep here, high above District 10. Hernan didn't flinch. The wind played with the edges of his coat, pulled against the straps on his back like invisible fingers searching for weakness.
