The SUV rolled through the towering metal gates of Styles Industries – Crescent City Branch, the largest weapons manufacturing facility in the entire region. Even from the outside, the building radiated precision: steel-reinforced walls, mirrored windows, advanced technology security towers, and guards standing like statues.
As soon as the vehicle stopped, the entrance doors slid open and a wave of employees stepped forward, forming a neat reception line.
Executives in tailored suits.
Division heads.
Lead engineers.
Senior security officers.
All waiting.
The moment Riley stepped out of the SUV, the atmosphere shifted.
"Welcome to Crescent City, Mr. Styles!"
"An honor to have you with us, sir!"
"We've prepared a full tour whenever you're ready!"
Smiles everywhere. Nervous excitement buzzing through the air.
Ethan stepped slightly behind Riley, tablet in hand, adjusting his glasses discreetly. He sensed the tension radiating from the crowd — they had probably been preparing for this moment for weeks.
But Riley?
He didn't blink.
His eyes swept across them once — cold, direct, calculating — and the cheerful energy wilted a little. He didn't nod, didn't smile, didn't offer a word of comfort.
He simply walked past them.
Straight through the lobby.
Straight toward the elevator.
Ethan followed immediately, bowing slightly to the staff to soften the blow of Riley's indifference.
Inside the elevator, Ethan cleared his throat.
"They seem very eager to impress you, sir."
"They're here to work," Riley replied flatly. "Not impress me."
The elevator doors slid open to the executive floor — polished floors, glass partitions, security keypads at every section.
Riley strode directly into his new office — wide, minimalist, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city. A perfectly organized desk awaited him, untouched.
He barely acknowledged it.
"Ethan."
"Yes, sir?" Ethan straightened.
"Call all top-level management. Every department head, every branch superior, the chief engineer, head of R&D, security directors, logistics leads — all of them."
Ethan typed rapidly on his tablet. "Should I schedule it for the afternoon—?"
"No." Riley's voice sliced cleanly through the air.
"Now."
Ethan blinked.
"Yes, sir. Right away."
Riley removed his gloves and placed them on the desk.
He stared out the window at Crescent City — the first step in a war he had been planning his entire life.
Loan sharks. All those people that traumatized his childhood. The entire underground network.
It all started here.
"Let's get to work," he muttered to himself.
And so…..
Ethan worked fast. Within twenty minutes of Riley's arrival, every senior official in the Crescent City branch of Styles Industries—department heads, lead engineers, production chiefs, logistics directors, and the acting branch VP—were seated in the oval conference room on the 38th floor.
The room was polished, glass-walled, modern. It carried the quiet hum of expensive machinery and the low murmur of nervous anticipation. Everyone had heard of Riley Styles, the young heir with an unnerving reputation: brilliant, unreadable… and dangerously capable.
The door opened.
Riley walked in without acknowledging a single greeting. His expression was composed, bordering on disinterested. Ethan followed two steps behind, carrying a slim tablet.
"Let's begin," Riley said simply, sliding into the head seat.
Ethan tapped the screen, and the room display lit up.
One of the engineering chiefs attempted a polite introduction.
"Sir, we prepared a brief—"
"No need." Riley interrupted calmly. "I went through your files on the jet. And I also picked up some things in the files last night."
A beat of silence. Ethan tried not to smirk.
Riley leaned back slightly. "Let's talk weaponry."
And then he began.
With the precision of someone who seems to have built machines since childhood—and the cold expertise of someone who'd tested them in the field—Riley dissected their entire arsenal. He pointed out heat dispersion flaws in their new Viper assault rifle, questioned the outdated stabilization algorithm in their drone program, and highlighted the inefficiency of their ballistic gel testing method.
Not once did he check his notes.
He didn't have any.
By the twenty-minute mark, the executives realized something unsettling:
Riley wasn't just the owner.
He understood weapons better than most of them combined.
"So far," Riley concluded, "your numbers look impressive on paper. In reality?" He tapped the table once. "You can do better."
Silence.
Then, as Ethan was ready to close the meeting, Riley's eyes drifted to a corner of the screen displaying internal personnel allocation.
"Why is the Head of Tactical Design role listed as vacant?" he asked.
The HR director cleared her throat. "The previous head resigned last month, sir. We're still reviewing replacement candidates."
Riley didn't nod, didn't react—he simply went quiet for two seconds.
Which, for him, meant a lot.
A face flickered in his mind.
A voice.
A memory of someone stubborn, yet nervous, and impossible to ignore.
Stephanie.
He spoke with a detached calm:
"Ethan."
"Yes, boss?"
"Get me the full details on that vacancy."
"Of course."
Riley stood.
"And also…" His tone lowered, almost thoughtful. "Arrange a message to Stephanie."
The executives exchanged curious glances— this was the first time that Riley's voice seems to be more softer ever since he arrived in the building.
"I want to speak with her."
And with that, he dismissed the room and walked out—leaving the entire management wondering who exactly Stephanie was… and why their cold, unreadable CEO suddenly cared about a vacancy.
But it was only Ethan who has some clues about all this as he had a weird smirk on his face while he thought.
'Seems like he has reached that point in his life'