Takamatsu bought the park to build his new headquarters in its plastic isolation. That tower grew ahead of her. She’d never been this close before; the Hopper's engines crackled as they fought for altitude. The building hadn’t tried to join Manhattan’s Mile High Club, topping out just over half as tall. Instead, it relied upon geometrical purity to stand out. The proportions were exact to thousands of an inch—a cylinder one hundred feet wide and three thousand high clad in opaque curved glass so tightly engineered no joints were visible. In the daytime, sunlight glittered from its facade like an iceberg; at night, it lit the empty park with a frigid, blue light. It grew upward from the Kennedy-Onassis Reservoir, the water serving as its final, physical separation from the real world. No one knew what went on inside the building, only that something within its walls generated vast amounts of heat; the huge lake boiled day and night, its surface shrouded by steam.