I nodded slowly, brain firing like a casino slot machine on coke. "Yeah, that tracks. With evidence like that hanging over Charlotte's head, Margaret would cough up that 5% in half a heartbeat. Not worth watching her golden child get shredded like a TikTok star's career after one racist livestream."
But these weren't amateurs with too much time on LinkedIn. These were CIA-trained predators. Professional destroyers of human lives. People who probably listed "enhanced interrogation" as a hobby on their Bumble profiles.
"ARIA—show me Margaret's movements. All of them. Anything that stinks."
And boom—the screens lit up like the Fourth of July had been outsourced to Silicon Valley. Footage poured in, cold, crisp, merciless.
