The forty-second floor of Rebuild Tech carried with the manic, relentless energy of a company caught in the gravity well of hyper-growth.
Ryan sat behind the massive desk in his corner office, the frosted smart-glass rendering the walls opaque.
He wasn't looking at the revenue metrics or the beta onboarding queue. He was staring at the blinking cursor on his private terminal.
The heavy glass door clicked and swung inward.
Hayes stepped into the Sanctum. The mercenary's posture was rigid, his expression locked into a mask of absolute, lethal professionalism.
He stopped in front of the desk, pulling a small, blood-stained burner phone from his pocket and dropping it onto the polished wood.
"We intercepted a hostile at Miss Osei's photoshoot in Brooklyn," Hayes reported, his voice a low, gravelly rumble.
Ryan's eyes snapped from the terminal to the phone. The air in the office instantly plummeted to absolute zero.
