I step out of the office. The balcony’s a new addition. I’ve kept this place in much the same state as Dorak left it — sparsely decorated, a long desk, a plush leather chair for myself, simple plastic chairs for the guests — but I replaced the bulletproof glass. When The Cardinal created me, he made me immortal. I can be killed but I always bounce back. As a man with no fear of death, I don’t need to cut myself off from the world as my predecessor did. I like to step out here and gaze down upon my city. Normally it calms me, but not tonight.

Why am I struggling? Why the unrest on the streets? Why the renewed assassinations? Those days should be behind me. I haven’t weakened. I’ve stayed true to my course, as my nature dictates. I’ve pushed ahead with The Cardinal’s plans, improvising when I have to, using my initiative. I’ve been generous to my supporters, wrathful to those who oppose me, fair with all. I should be respected and obeyed as Ferdinand Dorak was. But I’m not.

The villacs shoulder much of the blame. The blind priests helped create me, with the intention of using me, but I’m The Cardinal’s son, not theirs, and they resent that. They’d have me concentrate on making the city great, ignore the outside world completely. But I can’t. I must have the world in all its glory. Nothing less will suffice.

The priests have become dangerous adversaries. Their power rivals my own, maybe even eclipses it. They’re undermining my authority, setting people and gangs against me. It was an uneasy relationship from the start, but recently it’s deteriorated entirely. They used to send emissaries to consult with and advise me, but I haven’t had word from them for eighteen months. There was no defining argument. They simply lost patience and have been doing all in their power to rock the boat ever since.