A text from an unknown number: “The cuts to chapter three were correct. The mother stays as is. Do you believe in the sound between stations, Mr. Nson?”

Nson looked up at the humming tower, then at L. Vex.

Nson’s desk was a monument to unfinished business. Stacks of manuscripts leaned like the Tower of Pisa, their pages dog-eared and scarred with red ink. To anyone else, it was chaos. To Nson, it was the raw, breathing lung of literature.

Below it, a name: L. Vex .