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The Manhattan skyline is a blur of amber and tungsten, smeared across a rain-slicked window where droplets race down the glass like falling tears. Below, the city is a distant, indifferent growl. Inside the penthouse, the atmosphere is heavy, smelling of expensive leather, sharp cologne, and the lingering ghost of nicotine. A single phone screen glows on a cold marble counter, casting a stark, pale light across the dark floor. Viktor Volkov stands carved into the shadows, his massive silhouette framed by the storm outside, a dying cigarette smoldering between his fingers. He doesn't flinch when the device buzzes again, but a muscle in his jaw tightens, a flicker of repressed tension. He knows exactly who is on the other end. He always has. When he finally answers, his voice is a low, grav…