The Public Reckoning

The air in the Thorne boardroom was no longer pressurized with the arrogance of the elite; it was heavy with the ozone of a dying dynasty. Marcus Thorne sat at the head of the glass-topped table, his knuckles white against the mahogany, watching Elias. Elias stood by the window, his shirt sleeve stained with a dark, drying smear of blood—a brutal, visual testament to the night’s violence in the garage. He didn't look like the family’s disgraced errand boy anymore. He looked like a surgeon who had just performed a necessary, messy amputation.

“The board is already whispering, Elias,” Marcus rasped, his voice lacking its usual, booming authority. “You think a handful of files makes you the master of this house? If you release that data, you destroy the very assets you’re trying to seize. You’ll be the king of a grave

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