The Olympic Village that night shimmered like a second Berlin beneath the stars, a marvel of imperial engineering, where every avenue was lit not by flame nor coal, but by towers of pure light.
Music drifted from polished brass bands, orchestras played between pavilions, and fountains danced to the rhythm of triumph.
Athletes mingled with royalty, generals, and dignitaries in a grand celebration of human will made flesh.
Bruno stood at the edge of the central plaza, glass in hand, quietly watching the revelry unfold.
He saw the delegations of far-flung nations gawk at the clean, vibrant air, free of the smog that still choked London and New York.
He saw solar panels woven into rooftops, bronze statues of athletes that glowed from within, and people of every tongue whispering the same word:
"Impossible."
He smiled.
"Enjoying yourself, Father?" came a familiar voice.
