THE GLASS CAGE
POV: Elena Rostova
The sun didn't rise in the Penthouse. It was detonated.
At exactly 6:00 A.M., the automated blackout shades retracted into the ceiling with a synchronized hiss. There was no gradual dawn, no soft filtering of morning light. There was only immediate, blinding exposure.
I gasped, jerking upright in the massive bed. The sky was a bruising purple-grey, pierced by the hard white light of early morning reflecting off a million steel buildings below. I shielded my eyes, feeling a spike of adrenaline kick-start my heart. It felt less like waking up and more like being interrogated.
I lay there for a moment, my chest heaving, waiting for the familiarity of my old life to settle in—the sound of the radiator clanking, the smell of damp plaster.
Nothing. Just the low, pressurized hum of the HVAC system.
I threw off the duvet. The silk nightgown had ridden up my thighs during the night, tangling around my waist. I pulled it down, feeling the slide of expensive fabric against skin that felt too rough for it.
"Okay," I whispered to the empty room. My voice sounded small. "Day one."
I needed coffee. Violently.
I stumbled toward the bathroom. The mirror was still terrifyingly clear. I looked at the dark circles under my eyes. At least they matched the decor.
I showered quickly, terrified of using too much hot water, though logic told me Silas Vane probably owned the water utility, too. When I returned to the bedroom, I approached the wardrobe with trepidation.
I pressed the panel. The frosted glass slid open.
I ignored the silk slips and opened the drawers meant for "day wear."
I expected stiffness. Business casual. Blazers.
What I found was… architectural.
There were rows of high-waisted trousers in charcoal wool, wide-legged and fluid. Fitted turtlenecks in black cashmere. Structured blouses in stark white that looked like origami.
No jeans. No colors. No comfort.
I pulled out a black turtleneck and a pair of grey wool trousers. I dressed. The clothes fit frighteningly well. The waistband sat exactly where it should; the hem of the pants brushed the top of my foot.
I felt like I was putting on a uniform for a cult. The Cult of Vane.
I left the room barefoot—I couldn't bring myself to put on the severe pointed flats waiting in the shoe rack—and padded out into the hallway.
The Penthouse was awash in natural light. It was breathtaking, undeniably. The city looked like a circuit board from this height, clean and organized. But as I walked toward the central atrium, the silence began to gnaw at me again.
It wasn't a peaceful silence. It was a managed silence.
I found the kitchen by following the smell of roasted beans.
It wasn't a kitchen; it was a laboratory. Everything was stainless steel and black marble. The refrigerator was invisible, hidden behind paneling. There were no appliances on the counters—no toaster, no blender, no cluttered spice rack.
And in the center of it, sitting at the island with a tablet propped open, was Silas.
He was already dressed. A three-piece suit in navy so dark it looked black, a silver tie-pin holding a slate-grey tie in place. He looked like he had been pressed by an iron while sleeping.
He didn't look up when I entered.
"You are barefoot," he said. He took a sip from a white porcelain cup. "And you are seven minutes late."
I froze in the doorway, conscious of my naked toes curling against the cold stone.
"I didn't know the blinds were going to assault me," I muttered, walking toward the island. "Is there coffee? Or do I have to synthesize it myself?"
Silas paused. He didn't turn his head, but his eyes shifted to the side, tracking my movement.
"The machine is built into the wall. Don't touch the calibration."
I found the machine. It looked like the dashboard of a spacecraft. There were no buttons labeled 'Coffee'. Just dials for Bar Pressure, Water Temp, and Grind Coarseness.
I stared at it. I felt the heat rising in my cheeks. I had a Master's degree in English Literature, and I couldn't figure out how to make a cup of coffee.
"There's no button," I said through gritted teeth.
Silas sighed.
It was a quiet, devastating sound. The sound of a man who carried the weight of the world's incompetence on his shoulders.
He stood up.
He moved around the island. He didn't stomp; he flowed. He loomed over me instantly, smelling of sandalwood and something cold, like metal.
"Move," he commanded softly.
I stepped back, crossing my arms over my chest to hide the fact that I was shivering.
Silas reached out. His gloved hands—he wore gloves in his own kitchen—moved with deft speed. He tapped a screen I hadn't even seen illuminate, turned a dial two degrees to the right, and pressed a flush sensor.
A dark, rich stream of espresso poured into a cup that appeared from a recessed warming tray.
He stepped back, gesturing to the cup.
"Cappuccinos are for tourists. You drink espresso here."
I took the cup. The heat seeped into my cold fingers. "Thank you," I said stiffly.
He leaned against the counter, watching me take the first sip. It was bitter, strong, and perfect. I nearly groaned.
"Why the gloves?" I asked, looking at his hands. It was the question that had been burning in my brain since last night.
Silas looked down at his hands. They were encased in soft, black lambskin.
"The world is filthy, Elena. Oil. Dead skin cells. Bacteria. Every time you touch a surface, you leave a part of yourself behind and take a part of it with you. I prefer… insulation."
"Even in your own home?"
"Especially here. This is my sanctuary. I do not want to cross-contaminate."
He looked at my feet again.
"Put shoes on next time. The oils on your soles leave prints on the marble. It disturbs the finish."
I took a long swallow of the espresso, burning my tongue, just to have something to do other than scream. "I'm a biographer, Silas. Not a showroom prop. If you want a pristine house, don't invite a human being to live in it."
His eyes narrowed. For a second, the steel gaze sharpened into something dangerous.
"You are not a prop," he said, his voice dropping. "You are a study. I am curious to see if chaos can be disciplined." He checked his watch—a skeletal thing with exposed gears. "Finish your stimulant. We go to the Library in four minutes."
"I need to eat."
"There is a protein block in the refrigerator. Top shelf."
I stared at him. "A what?"
"Nutrition. Optimized."
He walked out of the kitchen without waiting for me.
I opened the hidden fridge. It was starkly empty except for rows of Fiji water and a stack of wrapped bars that looked like beige erasers. I grabbed one. It tasted like oat dust and sadness.
I ate it in two bites, chugged the espresso, and ran back to my room to find the pointed flats.
The Library was located on the upper level of the North Wing. To get there, I had to cross a glass suspension bridge that spanned the open atrium.
Walking across it felt like walking on air. The glass was perfectly clear. Looking down, I could see the lounge thirty feet below. It made my stomach flip.
I found Silas standing by a floor-to-ceiling window, looking out at the morning smog over the city.
The room was impressive. Two walls were lined with books—all bound in black or white spines. No colorful jackets. He had re-bound them. It was psychopathic.
In the center of the room was a long table. At one end sat his setup: blueprints, a sleek computer, the strange architectural rulers. At the other end, ten feet away, was a single placemat, a notepad, and a pen.
"Sit," he said, gesturing to the far end.
I sat.
"Observation one," Silas said, turning from the window. He didn't sit. He began to pace. "Write this down."
I scrambled to open the notebook Marcus had left for me. I clicked the pen.
"The concept of 'Shelter'," Silas dictated. "Most humans view shelter as a womb. A place to hide from the elements. Soft. Round. Warm."
He stopped behind his chair, gripping the leather back.
"I view shelter as a fortress. It is not about hiding. It is about dominating the environment. My buildings do not blend in with the landscape. They cut it. They assert themselves."
He looked at me. "Why are you not writing?"
"Because that sounds like a manifesto for a supervillain," I said. "It's cold, Silas. People want homes, not fortresses."
"People do not know what they want until I build it for them." He walked toward me. The sound of his shoes was muffled by the thick grey carpet in here. "People say they want 'cozy.' But they flock to cathedrals. They stare up at the pyramids. They are drawn to things that make them feel small. That is the truth of the human condition. You want to be dominated by your environment."
He stopped right beside my chair. I could feel the heat radiating from him.
"You, specifically, Elena."
I stopped breathing. "What about me?"
"You lived in a chaotic, crumbling apartment. You were drowning in debt. Your life was a series of reactions to external stress. You were small. You were prey."
He leaned down. His face was inches from my ear. I could smell the espresso on his breath now, mixed with the mint.
"Here, in the glass cage," he whispered, "you are safe. The walls are thick. The air is filtered. You don't have to make choices here. You just have to exist within the lines I have drawn. Tell me… doesn't part of you like it? Surrendering the control you were so bad at managing?"
My hand tightened around the pen until my knuckles turned white.
He was right.
That was the terrifying part. For the first time in six months, I didn't have to worry about the rent. I didn't have to worry about Nikolai. I just had to sit here and listen to him talk about concrete.
A flush of shame heated my neck.
"I'm here to write a book," I said, my voice shaky. "Not to be psychoanalyzed."
"The book is about me," he said, pulling back. "To write me, you must understand my worldview. You must understand Control."
He walked back to his end of the table and sat down. He picked up a stylus.
"You will stay here for four hours. You will observe me working. You will note my process. You will not speak unless I ask you a question. If you need to use the restroom, you may raise your hand like the schoolchild you are acting like."
"This is ridiculous," I muttered.
"This is billable hours," he corrected without looking up. "Write."
POV: Silas Vane
The girl was loud.
Even when she was sitting still, she was loud. I could hear the scratch of her pen. I could hear her shifting in the chair, the rustle of the wool trousers against the leather. I could hear her breathing—a shallow, irregular rhythm that suggested she was holding back a scream.
I stared at the CAD rendering on my screen, but my focus was fractured.
Usually, when I worked, the world ceased to exist. I entered the Flow State. Variables vanished. Pure geometry remained.
But today, there was a smudge in the periphery.
Elena.
She had tied her hair back, but stray wisps were escaping, framing her face in a dark halo. She was chewing on the end of the pen.
I hated that habit. It was destructive. Oral fixation. A sign of anxiety.
I should tell her to stop.
But I didn't.
I found myself watching her over the top of my monitor. She was writing furiously now. Her brow was furrowed. She looked… intense.
It was rare to see a woman in my space who wasn't trying to seduce me or serve me. She was doing neither. She was studying me.
I felt a strange sensation in my chest. A tightening.
I had built the Spire to be impenetrable. I had built the glass walls to keep the city out. But looking at her, huddled at the end of my table, wearing the clothes I had chosen, writing words about me…
I realized I hadn't just acquired a biographer.
I had acquired a mirror.
And mirrors were dangerous. They showed you the cracks you tried to hide.
I watched her for another minute, ignoring the multimillion-dollar schematic on my screen. Then, she stopped writing. She looked up. Her eyes met mine.
They were defiant.
Good.
If she broke too easily, it wouldn't be any fun.
"Your breathing is erratic," I said, breaking the silence. "Regulate it."
She glared at me. "My breathing is fine. It's the oxygen levels in here. It's too thin."
"The oxygen is maintained at 21% saturation. Perfect sea level," I countered. "You are just hyperventilating because you are attracted to me and it confuses you."
Her jaw dropped. "I am not—"
"Biology is geometry, Elena. Pheromones are vectors. You are reacting to a dominant force. Don't fight it. It burns more calories."
I looked back down at my work, hiding the smirk that threatened to break the straight line of my mouth.
"Two more hours," I said. "Don't chew the pen. It's disgusting."
I heard her slam the pen down on the notepad.
I smiled.