The following morning, the Northwood Lodge was bathed in a deceptive, crystalline peace. The alpine sun reflected off the snow-capped peaks, sending sharp, blinding shafts of light through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the mass room. Inside, the atmosphere was clinical and tense. The Artificial Intelligence interns—a group of the brightest young minds in the Ford conglomerate—sat in rigid rows, their tablets glowing with complex algorithms.
At the front of the room, standing before a massive holographic display, was Malcolm Ford.
He looked every bit the King of Deviloy. His suit was a dark, impeccable charcoal, and his tie was knotted with a precision that bordered on aggressive. Yet, beneath the high collar of his shirt, the silver brand on his neck hummed with a low, rhythmic heat that he couldn't quite ignore. His eyes swept the room with predatory efficiency. He was tracking every movement, every whisper, but his focus kept snagging on a single, empty chair in the third row.
