Damien did not go straight to Sinclair Headquarters.
The sleek, midnight-black Maserati, flanked by two heavily armored SUVs, took a sharp detour off the pristine avenues of the financial district, plunging deep into the neglected, rotting underbelly of the city's industrial sector.
The motorcade glided to a smooth halt in a narrow, dead-end alleyway. The area was a wasteland of overflowing dumpsters, shattered glass, and the pungent, unmistakable stench of stale sewer water leaking from rusted pipes.
Inside the climate-controlled sanctuary of the Maserati, Damien sat in absolute silence. His bespoke charcoal suit was immaculate. His silver hair was perfectly swept back.
He reached into the inner pocket of his suit jacket and retrieved a small, sterile packet. He tore it open, extracting a pair of surgical latex gloves.
