The G-Wagon growled to a halt before the skeletal silhouette of the Celestial Grand Hotel, soon to be reborn as Liberation Hotel. Floodlights carved harsh angles across half-finished steel, cranes frozen mid-lift like iron giants.
What had been a respectable 50-floor landmark was now a gutted shell, its core excavated for a planned 150-floor titan. Every room would become a 5-star suite; the top fifteen floors were earmarked for twenty presidential palaces and penthouses.
The footprint had already doubled—permits greased, bribes discreetly wired, agreements sealed in blood and ink.
The original three penthouses floated untouched in the middle of the expanding skeleton, suspended on temporary scaffolding like jewels in a crown under construction.
Tonight, the third penthouse—was empty and waiting.
