The boardroom of Blake Enterprise was no place for peace that morning. It was a battlefield dressed in polished oak and glass, a war fought not with swords or guns but with sharpened words, sly glances, and the steady grind of hidden agendas.
Alan sat at the head of the long table, his wheelchair positioned with deliberate precision. The sunlight streaming through the tall windows framed him in stark relief, outlining the composed figure of a man who bore the weight of both leadership and quiet suffering. At his side stood Samuel, loyal and unyielding, his presence a silent shield against whatever games the board might attempt.
Across from them, Victor Blake wore a smile that looked inviting at first glance, but there was no warmth in it. It was the smile of a shark circling its prey, patient and predatory. When Victor finally spoke, his voice dripped with something sweet that coated the poison beneath.
