Victor had one hand around the throat of a collapsing financial network and the other around a cup of coffee he hadn't touched in two hours.
The boardroom stank of old money, cheap fear, and the final hours of relevance. Two screens blinked with live data; three more displayed movement through Clarke Industries' final pockets of dissident rot. Ilia Wren's accounts had already been bled dry. The legal teams were halfway through formal asset seizure, and Robert…
Robert was in the corner, shirt immaculate, sleeves rolled. He was holding a trembling man by the collar, fingers pressed gently to his temple like he was tuning a radio made of nerves.
Andreas.
Still alive. Still talking. Still flinching every time Victor so much as breathed near him.
"… I didn't know who signed it…" Andreas rasped, voice hoarse. "It was under Jonathan's branch..."
