Here, the sky is silent.

No crowds, no prying eyes, no voices calling from the streets below. Just glass, the chill of metal, and a silence so deep it prickles your spine.

Standing atop the Sky Spire, the world seems ordered. Everything in its place.

And him? He listens to music. An old record spins, its melody weaving through the air as a cigar smolders softly. Holograms glide across the polished tabletop.

Here, amid crimson velvet and gold, his war begins.

Day.
A time for orders, meetings, and screens. He hears everything. Records everything.

Night.
When the holograms fade — only the music remains, the view from the windows… and that silence, inescapable.