Back in Time
A week earlier—
Rafael Vexley sat in the corner of his penthouse office like a man carved from shadow and glass. The city lights bled through floor-to-ceiling windows, throwing long, cruel reflections across the polished mahogany of his desk. He leaned forward, elbows braced, grey eyes pinning the encrypted reports on his laptop with the same cold precision he used on negotiations and boardroom predators. The screen's blue light etched lines into his face; his shirt was black and impeccably fitted, sleeves rolled to reveal forearms crisscrossed with the pale, stubborn scars of the accident that had rewritten his life. He lifted a tumbler of scotch and let the burn wash down like a ritual—sharp, familiar, the kind of small cruelty he permitted himself when the rest of the world demanded restraint.
