Morning sharpened the edges of Aurelia City. The storm of the night before had rinsed the skyline clean, leaving the air crisp, the pavement shining like obsidian under a pale sun.
Arkellin's black sedan slid to a halt at the entrance of Clock Tower. The building loomed above him, a monolith of glass and steel, its mirrored façade catching the light so bright it made the edges of the clouds look thin.
He stepped out slowly, the door closing with a muted thud.
Suit: tailored, black, cut to precision. Shirt: charcoal grey, collar sharp, no tie. His shoulders carried it with ease, but faint traces of the night clung to him still—the faint scent of gunpowder hidden beneath cologne, a nearly invisible smear of dried crimson at the seam of his cuff. If you didn't know, you'd never see it.
But Arkellin knew.
He adjusted the lapel of his jacket, gaze lifting to the tower before him. The glass reflected his figure—tall, controlled, streak of white slicing through black hair like an unspoken warning.
Inside, the lobby hummed with activity. Staff in sleek uniforms moved briskly, heels clicking against polished marble, voices low but hurried. The instant Arkellin crossed the threshold, the hum faltered.
Eyes turned.
Whispers began.
"That's him, isn't it? The consultant…"
"No, the man from those photos—both sisters at the gala."
"Scandal waiting to explode."
He walked through the silence without pause. Each step echoed steady against the floor, each breath measured. His scent cut through the lobby as he passed—cologne laced with something sharper, something metallic. Those who caught it shivered without knowing why.
Behind the reception desk, an assistant nearly fumbled her tablet, cheeks flushing as she ducked her head. Two interns near the elevators whispered too loudly, their words chasing him:
"They say Mira defends him."
"But Myra—she's seen with him everywhere. Imagine the headlines."
Arkellin pressed the elevator button. The chrome doors reflected him, distorted by the curved steel. His jaw was set, eyes dark, calm as still water. But beneath that calm, currents moved fast, deep.
The doors slid open. He stepped in alone.
As the elevator rose, he loosened one cufflink, straightening his sleeve. The faint trace of powder and iron still lingered in the fabric, ghost of the night's violence. His reflection in the glass wall stared back at him—sharpened, lethal, but perfectly disguised.
Above him, the board waited.
He exhaled once, slow, and let the doors close around him.
The elevator hummed upward, cutting through floor after floor of glass and steel. The numbers glowed softly above the doors—fifty-seven, sixty-two, sixty-eight—each one drawing him closer to the storm waiting at the top.
By the time the doors slid open on the executive floor, the air had changed. It was colder here, stripped of the bustling chatter below. The corridor stretched in muted elegance—thick carpet, polished wood panels, abstract art hung in deliberate symmetry. The only sound was the faint tick of a modern clock and the occasional shuffle of leather shoes belonging to assistants who hurried out of sight the moment they saw him.
At the end of the hall: the boardroom. Double doors in dark oak, brass handles gleaming under recessed light.
Arkellin pushed them open.
The room was vast, a crescent of glass walls overlooking Aurelia's skyline. Morning sunlight flooded in, caught on the gleam of a long obsidian table, around which twelve directors sat. Their suits were impeccable, their gazes sharper than the steel beams holding the tower. Every eye turned to him as he entered.
The temperature seemed to drop.
Mira stood at the head of the table, posture elegant, navy suit crisp, hair pinned back with precision. A stack of documents lay before her, but her hand rested flat against the table as if bracing against the weight of the room.
"You're late," one of the directors snapped before Mira could speak. An older man, silver hair cut to the millimeter, eyes cold with disdain.
Arkellin ignored him. He moved with unhurried steps, the faint echo of polished soles on marble carrying through the silence. He slid into the empty chair at Mira's right, posture relaxed, hands folded loosely in his lap. His scent—cologne masking something darker—reached the directors, pulling subtle discomfort into their stiffened jaws.
Mira's gaze flicked toward him briefly. A glance sharp enough to convey a warning, yet laced with something else—solidarity. She straightened, turning back to the table.
"Ladies and gentlemen," she began, voice smooth as glass. "You've seen the rumors. You've read the headlines. But what you haven't seen is the value. Allow me to introduce Mr. Arkellin… our consultant."
A low ripple of voices stirred around the table.
"Consultant?" one scoffed.
"With whose approval?" another muttered.
"This man drags our name into scandal."
Arkellin leaned back in his chair, expression unreadable, letting the noise wash over him. His eyes drifted to the skyline beyond the glass, then back to the table, each director caught in his calm scrutiny.
Mira raised a hand. The voices died reluctantly.
"He is here because I asked him to be," she said firmly. "And because this company requires more than numbers on a screen. It requires strategy. Insight. A mind unafraid to confront what others would rather bury."
The silver-haired director sneered. "Or it requires someone who knows how to bring headlines into our boardroom."
Mira's jaw tightened, but she didn't falter. "If you want to challenge him," she said, her voice cool, cutting, "then you go through me first."
The table fell into silence again, heavy, charged.
Arkellin sat still, his gaze sweeping the room, the faintest curve of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
The silver-haired director leaned forward, palms flat on the obsidian table. "We don't need outsiders meddling in Clock affairs. Especially outsiders dragging scandal in their wake."
A younger woman at the far end adjusted her glasses, eyes sharp. "He arrives with no credentials presented, no vetting, and no vote from this board. Why should we take his presence as anything but a liability?"
Another voice cut in, deeper, dripping with contempt. "He isn't here because of his qualifications. He's here because one sister pulls strings, and the other clings to his arm in front of cameras. That's not consultancy. That's opportunism."
The table buzzed with murmurs of agreement, directors speaking over one another, their voices rising like a storm.
Arkellin didn't move. His fingers tapped once against the arm of his chair, steady, deliberate. His eyes drifted to each speaker in turn—measuring, dissecting, storing every word like ammunition.
The air thickened, hostility palpable. Even the glass walls seemed to hum with the charge of disdain aimed his way.
Through it all, Mira remained standing, spine straight, lips pressed into a razor-thin line. Her pen hovered over the table, tapping once, twice, faster as the voices swelled.
Finally—
CRACK.
The sound of her folder slamming against the table silenced the room.
Every head turned.
Mira's voice cut through the quiet, cold and precise:
"If you want to challenge him," she repeated, her eyes sweeping the length of the table, "then you challenge me."
The directors froze, caught between indignation and unease.
Arkellin's smile deepened by the smallest fraction, his gaze fixed on Mira—not with surprise, but with a glint of acknowledgment.
The silence that followed was heavier than the accusations that came before.
And the boardroom storm was only just beginning.