Sloane didn't remember the ride home.
He remembered the look on the audit committee's faces. The smug curve of Leon Vasquez's mouth as he read the accusations aloud.
He remembered the moment someone whispered, "It's a shame. I thought the board was finally turning a corner."
He remembered every word. Every silence.
But the drive? A blur. Just motion and rage.
The penthouse door clicked behind him. He didn't turn on the lights.
He didn't need them.
He knew this place like he knew his own scarred skin.
---
His prosthetic leg ached—something like pain, something like memory.
He ignored it.
Sloane made it to his office and sat behind the desk, staring blankly at the reports spread before him. Documents marked as "leaked." Financial ledgers twisted against him. Fake IP traces stamped with his name.
They timed it perfectly, he thought. Just as the old guard was losing power. Just when Avery was finally rising.
He leaned back in the chair. It creaked softly under his weight.
