Power rarely announces itself.

  Sometimes it watches quietly from the top floor.

  Baltimore’s Inner Harbor shimmered beneath the midday sun, its waters alive with motion and reflected light. Tourists and locals crowded the walkways, drawn by spectacle and escape. The National Aquarium rose along the water’s edge like a glass cathedral, its curved walls gleaming as families drifted toward its promise of wonder.

  Nearby, the pavilions buzzed with commerce. Jewelry sparkled beneath striped awnings. The scent of baked goods and fresh seafood drifted through the air. Street musicians threaded melody through the noise as sightseeing boats cut across the harbor, decks packed with cameras and laughter. Among them glided sleek yachts, silent and polished, reminders of wealth moving just beneath the surface.

  Above it all loomed Waverly Towers, headquarters of the Global Police Force. Fifty stories of steel and glass dominated the skyline, reflecting both harbor and sky. From its upper floors, the city unfolded like a map of influence and control.

  For one woman gazing out from a penthouse window, the view wasn’t beauty.

  It was a stage.

  Stallia’s office was excess distilled—black marble floors, crystal chandeliers, shelves curated for appearance rather than knowledge. Power radiated from every polished surface.

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  She reclined in a leather chair, champagne flute balanced between her fingers, emerald eyes fixed on the television. A televangelist wept onscreen, promising miracles in exchange for “blessed” holy water.

  “God is good,” Stallia murmured, lips curling into a smirk. “I just made a million dollars off tap water.”

  Across the room, two G.P.F. officers stood at attention. Haze—tall, bald, immovable. Walton—leaner, restless, eyes flicking between Stallia and the screen.

  Stallia plucked a flyer from a stack of papers and slid it across the desk.

  Haze stepped forward and read it.

  CHRISTIAN ANTHROPOLOGIST PARIS MACEY — CLOSE TO FINDING THE HOLY SCROLL.

  A photograph showed a woman in ancient ruins, eyes sharp behind wire-rimmed glasses.

  “I’ve got a job for you boys,” Stallia said, leaning back. “Dr. Macey is getting too close to something she shouldn’t.”

  Walton cleared his throat. “Mission parameters, Commander?”

  “Find her. Bring her in. Retrieve the ancient cube she uncovered.” Stallia smiled thinly. “And if she doesn’t cooperate…”

  Haze nodded once.

  Walton hesitated. “Do we know where the Holy Scroll actually is? If she’s already uncovered part of it—”

  “She hasn’t,” Stallia cut in. “But she’s close. Too close.” She rose and crossed to the window, gazing out at the harbor. “The Holy Scroll contains truths that could unravel everything we’ve built.”

  She turned back, eyes hard. “The world runs on illusions—faith, power, hope. All commodities.”

  She waved them off. “Don’t disappoint me.”

  The officers saluted and exited.

  Stallia lifted her glass toward the televangelist, now sobbing about a divine vision.

  “To lies,” she whispered, and drank.