CONTROLLED IMPLOSION
POV: Silas Vane
The Boardroom of Vane Holdings was designed to intimidate. It was a cantilevered glass box extending twenty feet out from the main chassis of the 60th floor. When you sat at the table, you floated over midtown.
There were fourteen members of the Board. Most were old money—men who had inherited their empires rather than built them. They sat in their Eames chairs, looking at my bandaged hand as if it were a loaded weapon on the table.
It was.
"The stock is stabilizing," I said. My voice was calm, cutting through the murmurs. "The initial shock of the... altercation... has been absorbed by the market."
"Absorbed?" Charles Galloway, the Chairman, scoffed. He was a fat man with a face like a bulldog chewing a wasp. "You beat a man in the street, Silas. On 5th Avenue. The video has forty million views."
"It trends higher than the Super Bowl," I noted dryly. "And you'll notice that searches for 'Vane Architecture' are up 300%. There is no such thing as bad publicity, Charles. Only weak branding."
"This isn't branding! This is thuggery!" Galloway slammed his hand on the mahogany table. "We are voting to trigger the Morality Clause in your contract. We are removing you as CEO, pending a psychiatric evaluation."
I didn't blink. I adjusted the splint on my right hand. Elena had taped it beautifully—tight, symmetrical. It was a badge of honor.
"I built the floor you are sitting on," I said quietly.
I stood up. I walked to the edge of the glass wall, looking down.
"I designed the shear walls that keep this building upright in a hurricane. I coded the algorithms that manage the airflow. I know every bolt, every weld, every tension cable in the Spire."
I turned back to them.
"If you vote me out, I trigger the intellectual property kill-switch. I take the source code for the building management systems. I take the patent for the glass. I take the Vane name."
I leaned over the table.
"You can keep the building, Charles. But it will just be a pile of dumb steel without me. The lights will go out. The air will stop circulating. And you will be the king of a graveyard."
The room went dead silent.
"That's blackmail," someone whispered.
"It's leverage," I corrected. "Now. Let's discuss the counter-suit against Thorne—"
BOOM.
It wasn't a sound. It was a pressure wave.
It came from below. Far below.
The floor beneath our feet jumped. Not a vibration—a violent, vertical jolt.
The coffee cups on the table danced and shattered. The glass walls groaned—a terrible, high-pitched screech of silica under stress.
Charles Galloway fell out of his chair.
"What was that?" someone screamed.
I didn't scream. I froze.
I closed my eyes. I felt the aftershocks traveling up the steel skeleton of the Spire.
Frequency: Low.
Location: Foundation level. Sub-basement B.
Vector: Structural.
My eyes snapped open.
"Seismic event," I said automatically. "Or detonation."
"Detonation?" Galloway shrieked, scrambling under the table.
The alarms screamed to life. WHOOP. WHOOP. WHOOP.
"ATTENTION. CODE RED. STRUCTURAL ANOMALY DETECTED. PLEASE EVACUATE TO THE NEAREST STAIRWELL. DO NOT USE ELEVATORS."
The automated voice was calm. Unnervingly female. I had chosen the voice myself.
I grabbed my tablet. I punched in the override code for the building schematics.
Red lights were flashing on the sub-basement levels.
DAMAGE REPORT:
LOADING DOCK B: COMPROMISED.MAIN POWER FEED: SEVERED.FIRE SUPPRESSION: ACTIVATED.
"A bomb," I whispered.
The remnants of the Volkov syndicate. They hadn't come for a hit. They had come for the legacy. If they couldn't have the girl, they would bring down the tower.
"Evacuate!" Galloway yelled, leading the stampede toward the doors. "Get to the stairs!"
The executives ran. They were rats fleeing a sinking ship.
I stood alone in the shaking boardroom.
The lights flickered and died. Emergency red lighting bathed the room in blood tones.
My phone rang.
It wasn't Marcus. It was the landline from the Penthouse.
Elena.
She was thirty stories above me.
If the blast had damaged the core... smoke would rise. Heat would rise. Panic would rise.
I answered.
"Silas?" Her voice was shaking. "The floor just moved. The sculptures fell over."
"I know," I said. "Listen to me closely."
"The alarms are telling me to go down. To the stairs."
"NO!" I roared.
"What?"
"Do not enter the stairwell," I commanded, moving toward the door. "Smoke travels up the stairwells like a chimney. If there is a fire in the basement, the smoke will pool at the top. You will asphyxiate before you reach the 80th floor."
"Then what do I do? I'm trapped!"
"Stay in the apartment," I said, hitting the button for the private elevator. Nothing. Dead. Power cut.
"Silas, the power is out up here. It's dark."
"Go to the terrace," I ordered. "Go to the south terrace. The air is fresh there. Wrap yourself in the wool blanket. Wait for me."
"Where are you?"
"I'm coming up."
"The elevators are dead!"
"I know."
I threw my jacket off. It was heavy. Restrictive.
I looked at the stairwell door.
Thirty flights of stairs. Smoke. Panicked crowds coming down while I went up.
"Silas," she whispered. "Is it falling? Is the building falling?"
I put my hand on the wall. I felt the pulse of the steel. It was humming. Stressed, but holding. The dampeners were working overtime.
"No," I lied. Or I hoped. "The Spire stands. It does not yield."
"I'm scared."
"Use the fear," I said. "Fear keeps you awake. Don't close your eyes. I am coming."
I hung up.
I took a breath of the stale, recycled air.
I checked my watch. 10:14 AM.
I opened the stairwell door and ran into the chaos.
POV: Elena Rostova
The glass cage had become a trap.
The blackout shades had retracted when the power died, leaving the Penthouse exposed to the grey daylight. But down below, I could see black smoke billowing from the base of the tower, curling up the sides like ink in water.
BOOM.
Another shockwave. Smaller this time, but the glass rattled in its frames.
I stood in the center of the atrium, clutching the phone to my chest.
Go to the terrace.
I ran to the south wall. I tried to slide the heavy glass door open.
It was jammed. The electronic lock had disengaged, but the frame must have shifted. The geometry was off.
"Come on," I grunted, digging my heels into the rug.
I shoved. The door groaned and slid open a foot.
Cold wind blasted in. It carried the acrid scent of burning rubber and pulverized concrete.
I squeezed through the gap onto the terrace.
The wind was violent up here. It whipped my hair across my face. I looked over the railing.
Below, the streets were a mess of flashing lights. Fire trucks. Police. A sea of people looking up.
Looking up at us.
I shivered. It was freezing.
I remembered Silas's order: Wrap yourself in the blanket.
I went back inside. I grabbed the heavy charcoal throw from the sofa.
As I grabbed it, I saw movement.
Not from the terrace. From the elevator.
The private elevator doors were forced open.
My heart stopped. Silas said they were dead.
Two figures climbed out of the shaft. They hadn't ridden the car; they had climbed the maintenance ladder and pried the doors.
They were wearing firefighter gear. Helmets. Coats.
"Rescue!" one of them shouted through a mask. "Ma'am! Evacuation!"
Relief flooded me.
"I'm here!" I dropped the blanket and ran toward them. "Thank God. The smoke—"
I stopped.
The lead firefighter looked at me. Behind the visor, I saw his eyes.
They were blue. Watery, bloodshot blue.
I knew those eyes.
And I noticed the boots. They weren't firefighter boots. They were black leather work boots. Splattered with mud.
Nikolai was in jail. These weren't Nikolai.
These were the cleaners. The leftovers. The ones Silas hadn't broken yet.
"Wait," I said, backing up. "Silas said to wait for him."
"Mr. Vane sent us," the man lied. The accent was thick. Brighton Beach thick. "Come now. No time."
He reached for a radio on his belt. But it wasn't a radio. It was a jamming device.
"Grab her," he said to the other man.
I didn't scream. I didn't freeze.
I grabbed the heavy sculpture Silas had placed yesterday. The jagged iron brutalist piece.
"Stay back!"
"Don't be stupid, bitch. The building is burning. We are your ticket out."
"You set the bomb!" I accused. "You tried to bring it down!"
"Distraction," the man grunted. He stepped over the low table. "Volkov wants his investment back."
He lunged.
I swung the sculpture.
I put my entire body into it. The jagged iron caught him in the helmet.
CRACK.
The visor shattered. He staggered back, cursing in Russian.
The second man tackled me.
We hit the floor hard. The blanket tangled around my legs. He was heavy. He smelled of smoke and sweat.
He pinned my arms.
"Stop fighting!" he snarled. "We aren't going to kill you unless we have to. You're worth money."
I struggled, kicking, biting.
"Get off me!"
He raised a gloved fist.
"Hold her down," the first man said, spitting blood. He pulled a zip-tie from his pocket.
And then, a shadow fell over the atrium.
Not a cloud.
A man.
Silas Vane stood at the top of the floating staircase.
He wasn't running. He was standing perfectly still, silhouetted against the smoky light of the upper skylight.
He was soaking wet with sweat. His shirt was clinging to his chest. His chest was heaving. He had climbed thirty floors in record time.
He looked down at the scene. Me on the floor. Two fake firemen.
He didn't look like a CEO. He looked like the devil himself.
"Get," he said. The word was barely a whisper, but it carried. "Off."
The man on top of me looked up.
"Vane," he sneered. "You made it. We were just—"
Silas vaulted the banister.
He dropped twelve feet to the main floor. He landed in a crouch, the marble cracking under the impact.
He rose.
He didn't have a weapon. He had his splinted hand and his rage.
"Run," I screamed to the men. "Run!"
They didn't run. They pulled batons from their coats.
Silas smiled.
It was a terrible, broken smile.
"I needed this," he said. "I needed to hit something."
He attacked.
POV: Silas Vane
The stairwell had been a gauntlet of screaming civilians. I had pushed through them. I had run up thirty flights of stairs, my lungs burning, my legs turning to lead.
The oxygen was thin up here. Or maybe it was just the rage consuming the air.
I looked at the men in my living room. They were wearing uniforms that represented safety. They were desecrating the concept of rescue.
And one of them was touching Elena.
The man swung the baton.
I stepped inside the arc. My reaction time was slowed by fatigue, but my technique was ingrained.
I caught his arm with my left hand. I didn't twist it. I headbutted him.
The sound of his nose breaking was satisfying.
The second man—the one with the broken visor—charged me.
He had a knife.
I saw the blade flash.
"Silas!" Elena screamed.
I dodged. The knife slashed my arm, cutting through the shirt, biting into the tricep. A sting of hot pain.
Good. Pain focused the mind.
I ignored the blood. I grabbed the man's wrist.
I used the splint on my right hand. The hardened plastic and metal bracing made for an excellent bludgeon.
I drove the splint into his throat.
He gagged, dropping the knife, clutching his windpipe.
I kicked his knee. He went down.
I turned back to the first man. He was trying to get up.
I picked up the iron sculpture Elena had dropped.
I stood over him.
"You tried to break my house," I panted, lifting the heavy iron. "You tried to steal my future."
"Do it!" the man spat. "Do it, architect!"
I raised the sculpture high. I wanted to end him. I wanted to crush his skull like an egg. I wanted to wipe the smudge off the glass forever.
"Silas! NO!"
Elena's voice broke through the red haze.
"Don't do it! Don't let them make you a killer!"
She was on her knees, reaching out to me. Her face was tear-streaked.
"You're not a monster," she sobbed. "You're a builder! You fix things! Don't break him! Please!"
I looked at her.
I looked at the terrified man beneath me.
I looked at the heavy iron in my hand.
I was trembling. The adrenaline was a tidal wave.
If I killed him, the narrative was sealed. I was the psycho. Thorne won. The Board won. I lost Elena.
I lowered the sculpture.
I dropped it on the man's leg instead of his head.
He screamed as his femur snapped.
"Stay down," I growled.
I stepped over him. I walked to Elena.
I fell to my knees in front of her. My legs finally gave out.
"Are you broken?" I gasped, searching her body for injuries. "Did they... break anything?"
"No," she wept, pulling me into her. "Just scared. Just so scared."
She touched my bleeding arm.
"You're hurt."
"Flesh wound. Structural integrity is 90%."
I rested my forehead against hers. We breathed the same air.
"The building is shaking," she whispered.
"The dampeners will hold. I designed them for a magnitude 8.0."
"And the fire?"
"Marcus cut the gas lines remotely. The suppression system in the basement is active. It's contained."
I pulled back. I looked at her.
"I climbed the stairs," I said, stupidly. "Thirty floors."
"I know."
"I hate stairs. They are inefficient."
She laughed. A wet, hysterical sound.
"You came for me."
"I told you," I said, wiping a smudge of soot from her cheek. "I don't let my foundation crumble."
A drone buzzed outside the window. A news drone.
It hovered, filming us through the glass. Me on my knees, bleeding. Two men groaning on the floor. Elena holding me.
"Smile," I whispered to her.
"What?"
"Smile. The world is watching."
I turned my head toward the drone.
I didn't smile. I stared it down. I put my arm around Elena, pulling her possessively into my side. I claimed her. I claimed the violence. I claimed the survival.
Let them broadcast this.
Silas Vane, bloodied but unbowed, in his high castle, holding the woman he killed for.
The police helicopter rose into view, its spotlight cutting through the gloom.
"Rescue is here," I said.
Elena buried her face in my neck.
"I don't need rescue," she whispered. "I'm already home."
Scene Epilogue
Three hours later.
We were in the ambulance. Not going to the hospital—I refused. Going to a private clinic uptown.
The fire was out. The basement was flooded, but the Spire stood.
My arm was stitched. My hand was re-wrapped.
Elena was wrapped in a thermal blanket, sitting beside me.
Marcus was on the phone in the front seat.
"Sir," Marcus called back. "The Board vote."
"They voted?"
"They suspended the vote," Marcus said, looking at his tablet with disbelief. "Galloway resigned."
"Why?"
"Because of the live stream from the drone. The internet isn't calling you a psycho anymore."
"What are they calling me?"
Marcus turned the tablet around.
TRENDING: #TheArchitect.
The image was of me, kneeling in the glass, covered in blood, protecting Elena.
COMMENT:Find a man who climbs a burning building for you and fights off two hitmen. King Energy.
COMMENT:He literally saved her. Who cares if he has a temper? He's a hero.
The narrative had shifted. I wasn't the predator. I was the protector.
"Thorne is ruined," Silas murmured. "He attacked a man who just became a national symbol of devotion."
I looked at Elena. She was reading the comments, a strange smile on her face.
"King Energy?" she mocked softly.
"I prefer 'Apex Predator,'" I grumbled, leaning my head back against the wall of the ambulance.
She took my hand—the good one.
"We survived the implosion," she said.
"We did."
"So what happens next?"
I squeezed her fingers.
"Reconstruction," I said. "And revenge."