The wind at the top of the unfinished LuxePoint Condos didn’t just blow; it shoved. It tasted like salt spray and diesel exhaust, a distinct flavor that belonged only to this stretch of the coast where the city bled into the rusted industrial district. Emily Yamada stood on the edge. Her toes hung over the precipice of the concrete lip. Twenty stories down, the streetlights were starting to flicker on, amber beads strung along a necklace of cracked pavement and abandoned construction equipment. She checked her phone. 4% battery. One notification remained on the screen: *Your payment to PG&E has been declined. Insufficient funds.* She laughed. The sound was thin, whipped away instantly by the gale. It was funny. Truly. She had been the "Golden Girl" of the marketing department at Vexel Corp three years ago. Then the "Visionary Founder" of Yamada Strategies two years ago. And now? Now she was the woman standing on a roof because she couldn’t afford the Uber ride to the homeless shelter, and she certainly couldn’t afford to keep the lights on in the studio apartment she was being evicted from tomorrow. "Statistically," she muttered to the empty air, "the fall won't hurt. It’s the stop." She looked at the drop. It was a long way down. Her heart didn't race. That was the scary part. The panic had burned itself out weeks ago, leaving behind a hollow, echoing numbness that felt a lot like peace. She adjusted