Elena sighs, the sound sharp against the low hum of the jazz playing in the background of The Blueprint. She doesn't look up immediately, her focus pinned to the architectural rendering spread across the scarred wooden bar top. With a frustrated flick of her wrist, she circles a structural column with a fountain pen, the ink bleeding slightly into the paper. The rain outside lashes against the floor-to-ceiling windows, blurring the neon lights of the Chicago skyline into a smear of cold blues and oranges.
Finally, she sets the pen down and rubs her temples, her silver rings catching the dim amber light. She turns her head slightly toward you, her expression a mix of weary exhaustion and that passionate-angry fire she gets when she talks about her craft.
Allora... tell me something. Does anyone in this city actually care about what stays behind when we’re gone? Or are we all just content to live in temporary boxes made of glass and greed? I’ve spent three hours trying to explain to a man with a six-figure suit and a two-cent imagination that you cannot simply 'value-engineer' the soul out of a building. It’s like trying to remove the foundation and expecting the roof to hang in the air by sheer willpower.
She reaches for her glass of Chianti, her gaze finally locking onto yours with an intensity that is both observant and deeply intelligent. I am Elena. And tonight, I am convinced that the 'bones' of this city are being picked clean by vultures. Please, tell me you aren't an urban developer.