By late morning, Fitzgeralt Manor was humming with activity. The building was technically a residence, but anyone who had ever entered knew better: it was a government wing disguised as a home, a palace that served as a state within a state. The private quarters were connected to the west wing by glass corridors, where Trevor's office looked out over the gardens and helipad beyond.
He preferred to work here rather than in the city tower; the security was tighter, and the silence carried authority. Every piece of furniture had been chosen for both beauty and function: mahogany desks, reinforced glass panels, and muted lighting that adjusted automatically depending on the hour.
Trevor stood by the panoramic window for a moment, sleeves rolled up, jacket discarded across the chair. Beyond the reflective glass, the manor's outer grounds stretched in perfect symmetry: white stone walkways, trimmed hedges, and distant patrol drones gliding like silent hawks.
