After the lawyer had quietly excused himself, the old man remained seated, leaning slightly on his cane, his presence filling the room like an unspoken command. The others, sensing the weight of the moment, dared not make too much of a fuss. Instead, their gazes drifted to Martin Riley, sharp and calculating, as if silently measuring him, trying to decide whether to attack with words or hold back. The atmosphere was thick with tension, punctuated only by the faint rustle of clothes and the soft creak of polished floorboards.
Martin's expression was unreadable. A faint smirk played behind his eyes, hidden beneath the composed mask he always wore. He didn't flinch, didn't bow, didn't show the slightest hint of vulnerability. His calmness was a quiet defiance, a testament to years spent weathering storms far worse than this moment.
