One hundred and one stories above Central Park, a cavernous and poshly decorated floor was awakened by the dawn’s first light. Quiet rings of Rattle and Hum from half-donned headphones drowned in the squeal of a sloshing mop bucket. The maintenance door closed and an elevator opened. Issac Chavez, a portly, bespectacled and balding man shuffled out, tucking the morning paper under his arm, in a normal fashion.

Issac glanced at the wall of flat screen monitors. Large etched-glass doors closed behind him. Dozens of transient images interchanged like a split-flap display in an overbooked airport. Just an ordinary day and business as usual. Then, Issac saw something different. He sat a blue BOSS sportcoat over a rumpled Briggs & Riley backpack and dove in for a closer look.

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Eyes opened wide, their focus fixed straight ahead. “Who you gonna meddle with this time?” He pulled fogged glasses from his face and swung an iPhone from off his hip. “Hey Siri, shoot a text to Martin Abrams.” ready, “we need the closed loop controlled,” is that all? – “send.”


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