Marcus Stormwind surrendered at 0800 exactly, the kind of punctuality that tells you the decision was written before the hour turned.
His projection resolved in my office—uniform precise, eyes steady, posture neither defiant nor bowed. A man who had done the arithmetic and accepted the sum.
"Arthur," he said without preamble. "It's time we discussed terms."
I leaned back, taking in the commander who had flown Skyveil from regional carrier to continental monopoly. Even now, he carried the unshowy composure that had made him dangerous: no theatrics, no bargaining feints—just a professional arriving at the only conclusion the numbers allowed.
"I'm listening," I said, though we both knew this conversation had a single viable endpoint.
