Michael's office was quiet.
Not the normal quiet of "nothing happening," but the quiet of a man who owned too much power for noise to be necessary.
He stood by the glass wall, looking down at New York like it belonged to him. His suit was clean, his tie straight, his face calm. But the calm was thin. The kind that only held when nothing touched your pride.
A knock came.
"Come in," Michael said without turning.
Clara stepped in with a tablet and a slim folder. She moved carefully, like she had learned his moods over time.
"Sir," she said. "The Korea file you asked for. Updated."
Michael finally turned. He walked back to his desk, sat, and took the tablet without rushing.
"Korea?" he repeated, like it was a foreign word he didn't want in his mouth.
Clara nodded. "Yes, sir. But it's not just Korea anymore."
Michael's eyes flicked up. "Explain."
Clara tapped the screen and opened the report. Numbers. Headlines. Screenshots. Clips.
And then the name.
Dayo.
