I looked up at the tower slicing through the clouds like a blade. It belonged to one man.

Elliot Crowe.

Everyone in New York knew the name. A tech emperor who built an AI empire before thirty. Brilliant. Untouchable. Then three years ago, a crash shattered his spine and his life. Since then, he lived sealed inside the tower, rumored to have become cruel, obsessive, unreachable.

That was why I was here.

Security was tight, but a catering badge and a stolen tray got me past the service elevator. The doors opened straight into the penthouse—cold chrome, black leather, glass walls bleeding gray city light.

He sat facing the storm, wheelchair unmistakable.