The heavy oak doors of Charles Stones' study swung open with a low groan, the familiar scent of polished wood and aged whiskey filling the air.
It was a room that demanded silence, its walls lined with shelves of leather-bound books, a massive mahogany desk dominating the far end. A fire crackled softly in the stone hearth, throwing long shadows that stretched across the Persian rug.
Charles entered first, his stride unhurried but commanding, as though every step carried the weight of decades of empire-building. Jake and Raymond followed, the atmosphere thickening with every footfall.
"Sit," Charles ordered, his voice deep, unyielding.
The brothers sank into the high-backed chairs before his desk. Jake, as always, masked his thoughts behind calm composure, while Raymond shifted slightly, restless, a nervous energy clinging to him.
Charles leaned against the desk, crossing his arms, his gray eyes sweeping over them like a hawk sizing its prey.
