I stood at the edge of the Fontainebleau's private rooftop terrace, the Miami skyline unfurling before me like a circuit board of wealth and corruption. Each twinkling light represented someone's dream or someone's scheme, a digital dreamscape where the lines between reality and fantasy blurred. My neural interface glasses painted an augmented reality over the city, while ARIA projected the vultures' meeting directly into my vision, a voyeuristic glimpse into the inner workings of their Manhattan tower, two thousand miles away.
Through the forty-second floor windows, I watched Vincent, Dmitri, and Antonio circle each other like sharks sensing blood in their own tank. The tension was palpable, the air thick with the scent of paranoia and desperation.
"They're starting to crack," ARIA observed, her voice a sultry whisper in my ear, courtesy of the bone conduction speakers in my glasses. "Antonio knows he's being set up as the fall guy."
