The city below was alive with noise, lights flickering from bars, cars honking in frustration, and sirens howling in the distance. But on the 37th floor of the VossTech building, silence reigned.
Clement Voss was alone in his office, swirling a glass of scotch, reviewing reports that meant nothing anymore. His mind kept drifting to a feeling he couldn't shake—a strange chill in the room, like someone had walked over his grave.
He got up, locking his windows and turning on the security system. The night air unsettled him. Maybe it was the pressure from the new investigation the press was stirring up. Or maybe, just maybe, it was guilt finally catching up with him.
He had no idea it was something far worse.
—
Across the rooftop, Matherson moved like a shadow.
Black boots. Black jacket. Black gloves. Everything about him was silence and control. He reached the ventilation shaft, unscrewed the panel with tools he knew how to use in his sleep, and slipped in.
The climb through the vents was narrow, suffocating, but calculated. He had memorized the floor plans, watched employee routines for weeks, and timed every camera rotation. This wasn't rage—it was precision.
When he dropped silently into Voss's private office, the man was still at his desk, unaware.
Matherson stepped out of the shadows and spoke, calm as a whisper.
"Long time, Voss."
The older man jumped to his feet, heart pounding, eyes wild with disbelief.
"Who the hell—"
"You don't remember me?" Matherson said, stepping into the light. "Maybe this will help."
He pulled a flash drive from his coat and slid it across the desk. The same flash drive—the one with the files Mr. Jayson had died protecting.
Voss stared at it, his throat going dry.
"Jayson's boy… impossible. You—you're dead."
Matherson tilted his head. "Funny. People keep saying that. But I'm right here."
Voss tried to press the panic button beneath his desk—but found his hand frozen. Matherson had already cut the wires hours ago.
"No one's coming," Matherson said. "And you and I are going to have a talk."
He grabbed Voss by the collar, slamming him into the chair. "You ordered the hit. You wanted the disc. Why? Who else was involved?"
"I—I can't," Voss stammered. "You don't understand, they'll kill me—"
"So will I," Matherson whispered, his tone like ice. "But I'll make it slow. Unless you give me names."
Voss's eyes flickered. Fear. Panic. Truth.
"Alright," he gasped. "There's a man… Vincent Raye. He's the one who runs everything now. He was above me. Above everyone. You think your father found something big? That was just the surface."
Matherson leaned closer. "Where is he?"
"Off-grid. He runs operations from a private facility… no one knows exactly where. But his brother—Derek—he's in the city. Watches the money."
Matherson released him, letting the chair crash backward.
"One more thing," he said, walking toward the door.
Voss looked up, hopeful. "You'll let me go?"
Matherson paused. "I'm not like you," he said, then turned. "But I don't forgive, either."
He reached into his pocket, pulled out a flashbang, and tossed it onto the floor. The room lit up like lightning.
When the smoke cleared, Voss was alone—dazed, shaking, heart racing. And Matherson was gone.
—
Outside, on the rooftop, Matherson looked out over the city. The first piece had fallen. The next piece—Derek Raye—wouldn't be so easy.
But he wasn't here to take the easy road.
He was here to finish what they started.