Tyrell Green remained seated for a moment after dismissing his team. His arms folded across his chest, his gaze locked on the sleek presentation screen, which had now faded to black.
The directive had been clear: Pull Izan Hernández away from Adidas—carefully, surgically, like a heist without the alarms.
Outside the conference room, the mood was lighter.
Jokes, murmurs, and small talk about the coming weekend as staff dispersed through the halls, folders tucked under arms and tablets glowing with briefs.
One member of the crew, Nate—an analyst sharp with numbers and even sharper with gossip—trailed behind the others.
He didn't take the elevator down with them. Instead, he moved past it and slipped into a quiet stairwell, letting the door fall shut behind him with a hollow click.
He waited a beat, listening for footsteps. Nothing. The silence was clean. Then, slipping a hand into his blazer pocket, he pulled out his phone.
No names. No introductions.
