The thirty-fourth floor of 55 Hudson Yards tasted like fresh white oak, dry metallic ozone, and forty-five dollars per square foot of pristine glass.
Outside, the late October sky over the Hudson River was a dark, bruised violet, smeared with the orange reflection of the Manhattan evening rush. Below, thousands of yellow taxis flowed down Tenth Avenue like glowing rivers of molten copper. Inside, six thousand square feet of polished industrial space sat hushed under minimalist recessed lighting.
There were no cubicles. No plush, heavy mahogany desks inherited from nineteenth-century railroad tycoons.
Instead, the perimeter was lined with sleek brushed-titanium work tables, high-density server cabinets quietly humming behind double-paned acoustic glass, and a floating floor-to-ceiling gl
