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The room was filled with a cold, sterile smell. It was a mixture of genuine leather, the slightly chemical but clean scent of steamed wool, air-conditioning, and menthol. Outside, the sirens screamed, louder than any Elijah had ever known. ”Let’s cut to the chase. We’ve reviewed your Q3 projections for the European market. They look solid...” The view from the 47th floor was surreal. It created the effect of a spiked ceiling trap in a crushing room—similar to the famous Indiana Jones scene, but upside down, with the spikes rising from the bottom. The meaning of the term ”concrete jungle” slowly became clear. ”However, look at the bigger picture. The UK market is saturated. The US is the prize. We’d rather spend a bit more now to ensure the foundation is rock solid, than face a lawsuit six months down the line. It’s about sustainable growth, not just a quick win.” His features showed engagement, despite the clear signs of a long flight. It seemed funny how small the people flickering below appeared, their significance diminishing as the floors rose. It was as if people had learned the wrong lesson from the Tower of Babel story. Where classical exegesis would say that people were wrong to build a tower to reach God, modern city builders seemed to insist: the problem was that we had only one tower, so we will try to diversify the whole. The second amusing, but completely tired trope, was that the punishment had also become diversified. Instead of being struck down once and for all, people were being slowly oppressed by the weight of these skyscrapers, choking gradually `a la ”peine forte et dure.” ”Can your department guarantee 500,000 active users in the first six months, Mr. Cory?” ”Well,” said Elijah confidently, as if he had rehearsed the answer or had been listening to the monologue carefully. ”Our analysts predict a weak microeconomic outlook. That number is, on the one hand, probable, but on the other, eats into our margins.” ”Yes,” added Elijah, before a response came. ”I understand. I also would wish to have ’one-handed’ analysts. ’Guarantee’ is a strong word; we couldn’t really base our strategy on those results, Mr. Ross.” ”Alright. If you hit those numbers, we’re happy. If not, we’ll need to have a very different conversation in December.” ”Okay,” said another man, barely distinguishable from the others, with a receding hairline. He looked more tired than the rest and obviously led the main agenda. ”I think that’s it for today. For the newcomers, enjoy the city, and to all of you: have a productive week. I’ll see you on Friday.” Already downstairs, stepping out through the revolving door, Elijah saw the evening city. He showed no excitement. The smell of air-conditioning was replaced by the chill wind blowing through the big city. He couldn’t help taking photos on his smartphone: polished showcases with well-known brands, advertisements, the very tower he was fleeing from. It was clear that these photos would never resurface in his mind or on his phone again—except perhaps as random reminders from the operating system—yet it felt like a duty, even if without any real desire. Yes, the city was new to him, but his perception of it was nothing extraordinary; it was everything he had already grown used to back home.