The fall was not from a great height, but from a great idea of herself.

They found her in the ruins of her penthouse, surrounded by the corpses of her screens. The air, once thick with the scent of power and ambition, now smelled of ozone, melted plastic, and the faint, sour odor of human decay. She was crouched on the floor, her back to the door, a wraith in a ruined designer suit. Her hair, a shocking, brittle white, fell around her shoulders like a shroud.

Reed, ...