Damien was exactly thirty minutes late to the most important executive board meeting of the quarter.
He didn't care.
He didn't even rush.
He took powerful, measured strides down the glass-paneled corridors of Sinclair Headquarters, his bespoke suit jacket unbuttoned, radiating a dark, suffocating aura that had junior analysts literally pressing their backs against the walls to clear his path. They kept their heads bowed, offering hushed, terrified greetings that he completely ignored.
Ken walked briskly at his left flank, holding a sleek iPad loaded with the meeting agenda, while a massive, heavily armed security contractor flanked his right.
In Damien's hand was a stark white paper cup from the obscenely expensive artisanal café down the street. It contained a double espresso—black, bitter, and strong enough to strip paint.
He pushed through the heavy double doors of the main conference room.
