Glass Towers is not a district. It is a condition that repeats across the vertical city: the upper floors of The Architecture's corporate spires after the last shift clocks out. Floor-to-ceiling glass, rain running down the outside, a skyline that keeps processing below. The lobbies are immaculate and empty. The lights stay on because the building never decided they should go off.
This is the surface layer of The Architecture, the part it shows on purpose. Down in the data corridors the grid hums; up here, at 3am, the same grid simply watches a space with nobody in it. Every camera is live. Every sensor is logging. The feed scrolls clean because there is nothing to flag. That cleanliness is the point.
The Architecture cannot see everyone, and the gaps in its vision are where the other factions live. Glass Towers is the inverse of a gap. It is the place the grid sees perfectly, continuously, with no resistance and no subject. If the Ghost Layer is the dead frequency band the scanner cannot reach, Glass Towers is the frequency the scanner owns completely, and finds empty.
The towers belong to Machine Control the way the whole grid does. The grid was never neutral. It was always her. Chrome Hazard runs the enforcement edge of these spires; Inescapable Vortex is the routing pull that fills the lobbies at 8am and empties them at midnight. None of them are present at 3am. The towers run without them, which is exactly how the Architecture prefers it.
Data-center fans. Rain on glass. The cold pulse of something that never stops processing. One hour inside that surveilled emptiness, synthwave for the only living thing on a monitored floor.