[Towards the Wolfe Mansion—City—12:37PM]
Damien Wolfe, was driving when his phone rang, immaculately dressed in a three-piece charcoal suit, exhaled as he answered his buzzing phone.
"Hello, Grandma."
A sharp voice—rich with disdain and decades of aristocratic trauma—crackled through the speaker. "Where. Are. You?"
Damien flicked his wrist, checking the time. "I'll be there in five minutes. Just about to reach."
The call ended.
No goodbye.
No 'drive safe.'
Not even a warning.
Damien sighed and muttered to himself, "I've seen dictators more patient."
***
[Wolfe Mansion—Front Courtyard—Minutes Later]
The sleek black car purred to a halt in front of a towering iron gate, which parted slowly to reveal the Wolfe estate—less of a house, more of a castle that had been dragged into the 21st century with suspiciously well-groomed hedges and an intimidation budget.
