The forty-seventh floor of the skyscraper hummed with the restless energy of a machine seconds before collapse. Fluorescent panels flickered overhead, casting fractured shadows across glass-walled offices and polished stone floors. Analysts hustled between stations, murmuring in clipped whispers, while engineers and technicians swarmed like ants around the central server column, their faces lit by monitors flashing erratic lines of code.

Then, one by one, every screen froze.

A neon-red phrase materialized across the displays, its glow reflected in a hundred pairs of widened eyes:

SYSTEM WIDE FAILURE — ALL ASSETS COMPROMISED.

Then a second line bled onto the screens, shaky like handwriting but sharp enough to cut:

SOLVE OR SUFFER: A CITY WITHOUT POWER IS A SYSTEM BARE. A MAN WITHOUT POWER IS A TRUTH REVEALED. TELL ME, WAYNE: IF THE GRID FAILS, WHAT REMAINS?

Silence dropped like a steel sheet on the floor.

No alarms.

No chatter.

Just breathless disbelief.

At the far end of the operations center, inside a glass office overlooking the city, Drayce Wayne watched the message replicate across every monitor with the stillness of marble. Tall, clean-shaven, and broad-shouldered, he carried the quiet authority of a man who had been forged by responsibility long before he sought it. His skin held a warm, deep brown tone that contrasted sharply against his obsidian suit.

Behind him, Manhattan gleamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, the early sun cutting across the skyline in cold, clean light.

The moment Drayce stepped out of his office, the tension felt physical, sharp enough to slice through the stale hum of emergency lighting.

Analysts stood frozen at their workstations, staring at the same pulsing red script on every monitor. The glow painted their faces in a sickly wash of color.

Managers swarmed him within seconds.

“Sir… our field techs are reporting gridlocks across all boroughs,” one said, breathless. “Traffic lights are dead; countless collisions confirmed.”

“Elevators and subway cars are stuck with passengers inside,” another added. “Backup power in several lines has failed.”

“And our stock—sir, it’s falling by the second.”

Across the screens lining the operations center, the Wayne Dynamics ticker flashed violently:

WYNE — $450 → $398 (-6%) → $342 (-13%) → $280 (-20%)

Red arrows cascaded down the monitors like falling sparks. Analysts pressed buttons, muttering into headsets, but nothing stemmed the bleeding numbers. 

Drayce didn’t flinch. He could feel the collective pulse of panic, the city itself mirrored in those numbers. Then, with a sharp glance at the drone feed and the emergency grid control panels, he gave a single command.

“Deploy all rapid-response units. Activate all of the drone-assisted repair units. Maximum coverage in every borough.”

The managers nodded, scattering like trained birds.

He turned to his Cybersecurity & Systems Control director, Kaito Marston, who had nearly sprinted to reach him.

“Blank-check authorization,” Drayce said. “Personnel, equipment, outside hires—use anyone and anything you need. I want the source of this intrusion identified and contained immediately, no bureaucratic steps. No delays.”

“Yes, sir—”

Drayce was already moving.

He pushed into the emergency stairwell. It thrummed with the chaotic shift of hundreds of employees; some climbing to other departments, others descending toward ground access. Two security guards cleared a narrow path.

Drayce descended the stairs quickly, Meta glasses flickering with incoming messages that stacked faster than he could swipe them away.

City officials.

Board members.

Two borough presidents.

A US Senator.

He muted the flood and tapped a single name.

“Jean,” he said as the line connected.