Conroy sat motionless, illuminated only by soft red emergency lighting. Manhattan’s neon glow ghosted the windows, the thin and twisted forms of the Blade Towers blurred by the storm. Rain dashed against the glass roof with an urgent drumbeat, while the perfume of wet soil kindled memories of his childhood vacations. That pleasant odor, however, did nothing to mask the pungent stink of burned rubber and leaking coolants. His tablet glittered with alerts detailing the Bridge’s power-system collapse.