The Boardroom Counter-Attack

The glass walls of the Thorne Plaza boardroom were designed to project transparency, but they only served to amplify the cold, sterile isolation of the men inside. Marcus Thorne sat at the head of the mahogany table, his posture a calculated display of absolute, unassailable power. He was mid-sentence, dismissing the concerns of the redevelopment committee, when the heavy doors groaned and swung open.

Elias Thorne didn’t wait for an invitation. He walked into the room with the measured, rhythmic gait of a man who had stopped asking for permission. His white coat was stained with a jagged, oxidized streak of dried blood—a visceral, jarring contrast to the pristine,

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