The car was too quiet.
That should have been Elias's first warning.
Outside the tinted windows, the capital glided past in curated symmetry, with glass buildings, green corridors, and projections announcing the gala of the year. Inside, the cabin was climate-controlled and silent except for the occasional murmur of tires over newly laid asphalt.
Ashwin drove. Of course he did.
And of course, he was silent. The man could drive through a war zone without blinking, without changing lanes, and without commenting on anything that wasn't directly lethal.
Victor sat beside Elias with the relaxed posture that meant he was absolutely not relaxed. He was scrolling through something on his wristband, face unreadable, expression set in the slight frown he always wore when logistics weren't obeying fast enough.
Elias, meanwhile, was trying to understand one single thing:
"When," he said slowly, holding his tablet like it had personally insulted him, "did I inherit Clarke Industries?"
