The hum of the private elevator hissed to a smooth, silent stop on the 102nd floor of the Deviloy Tech headquarters. The doors slid apart, and Malcolm Ford stepped out onto the polished floorboards of his executive suite.
Exactly one week had passed since the catastrophic incident in Dahmer's mansion. Thanks to the unparalleled, highly advanced recovery rate of his S-tier Alpha biology, the agonizing soreness in his lower pelvis and the deep, bruising physical exhaustion had completely receded, leaving his towering, muscular frame back at peak efficiency. He was dressed immaculately in a bespoke, razor-sharp three-piece midnight-blue suit, his silk tie knotted perfectly beneath a high, stiff collar that entirely concealed the faint, fading remnants of the purple mating marks on his neck. His broad shoulders were squared, his jaw was a line of rigid marble, and his classic, aristocratic straight ego was back in full force.
