The headlines bloomed like bruises across every surface—phones, TVs, whispered breaths in elevators and boardrooms.
"CRIPPLED HEIR OR CORPORATE FRAUD?"
"FROM WHEELCHAIR TO WHITE COLLAR CRIME—SLOANE DELANEY UNDER FIRE."
"DELANEY HEIR CAUGHT IN FINANCIAL SCANDAL—LINKED TO DARK MONEY SCHEME."
Even the photos were brutal—cropped frames of Sloane's disfigured hand gripping his cane, the stark slash of the mask across his face, that rare photograph of him and Emilia, his eyes vacant while she laughed too brightly beside him.
By mid-morning, #SloaneDelaneyScandal was trending globally.
And Sloane was silent.
He sat alone in his office, watching the footage on loop. The air was heavy. Acrid.
The mask burned against his skin. His prosthetic throbbed. His left hand shook—not visibly, not quite. But enough.
There was a knock.
The door opened before he could answer.
