The Penthouse

The rain in the city didn't wash things clean; it just made the grime slicker. From the vantage point of the Spire, however—two hundred stories above the struggling masses—the rain looked like diamonds streaking across the reinforced glass.

Arthur Pendelton adjusted his tie, catching his reflection in the darkened window. He looked tired. The lines around his eyes were deeper than they had been a year ago, back before the botched conspiracy story that had torched his reputation and his marriage. He needed this. He needed the scoop on Lord Alistair Vane.

"Mr. Pendelton," a voice smoothed the air of the room. "Thank you for your patience. The Tokyo markets were particularly volatile this morning."

Arthur turned. Lord Alistair Vane stood by the wet bar. He was a man who seemed to absorb the light around him rather than reflect it. He wore a bespoke charcoal three-piece suit that fit with surgical precision, and his posture was that of a man who had never been rushed in his life.

"Lord Vane," Arthur said, fighting the urge to smooth his rumpled jacket. "The pleasure is mine. I appreciate you granting the exclusive."

"Please, call me Alistair. 'Lord' feels so... feudal. Scotch? It’s a terrifyingly old blend."

"Neat, please."

Vane poured the amber liquid into heavy crystal tumblers. He walked over, his movements fluid, and handed a glass to Arthur.

"You’re here about the rumors," Vane stated, skipping the pleasantries. "My 'off-world assets.' The whispers that I’ve managed to bypass international treaties regarding land acquisition."

Arthur took a sip. The scotch tasted of peat and smoke. "They say you own more land than God, Alistair. But the deeds don't show up in any terrestrial registry. My readers are curious. Where are you hiding it?"

Vane smiled. It was a gentleman’s smile—polite, restrained, and entirely devoid of warmth.

"I don't just own land, Mr. Pendelton. Land is static. Dirt is boring." Vane walked to the far wall of the office, which was dominated by a massive, circular vault door made of brushed steel and iridium. "I own *realities*."

Arthur chuckled nervously. "That’s a hell of a metaphor."

"Is it?" Vane placed his hand on the biometric scanner. The vault hissed, a sound like a lung deflating. The heavy gears began to turn. "Journalism requires verification, does it not? Why don't I show you my favorite acquisition?"

Arthur felt the weight of the pistol in his shoulder holster—a paranoid habit from his days reporting in war zones. He hoped he wouldn't need it. He stepped forward, his reporter’s instinct screaming that this was the headline that would save him.

"After you," Vane said, sweeping his arm toward the opening darkness.