Citadel City
Inside Kyle Sterling's mansion, the atmosphere reeked of wealth and menace. The grand study was lit dimly by the soft glow of chandeliers, their golden light spilling across shelves of leather-bound books and polished oak furniture. The air was thick with the scent of cigar smoke and old whiskey. The fire crackled in the grand fireplace, casting restless shadows across the marble floor.
Kyle Sterling sat back in his leather armchair, his white-pale face highlighted by the amber liquid swirling in his crystal glass. His suit jacket was unbuttoned, tie loosened, as though he had already had more than a few drinks. Documents lay scattered on the table before him—maps, shipping manifests, coded notes—each pointing to something larger, something dangerous.
He leaned forward, plucked his phone from the table, and dialed. His voice was smooth, cold, and touched with intoxication. "Luna, what's the status of the triggers?"
