Continued: "Who, sir?" the man at the table Derek stands at stutters, his unease evident as he shifts under Derek's unwavering gaze. "Franko, I need him," Derek replies, his tone sharp and unforgiving, his impatience evident as if the question itself is a trivial annoyance. I dare not turn around, my back rigid against the demands of the moment, feeling the weight of anticipation pressing heavily on my shoulders. "He's in the IT room, planning, sir," the man offers cautiously, like a lifeline thrown into turbulent waters. Relief floods his tone, shifiting his voice an octave lower. "Good. We need it done now," Derek growls, his footfalls formidable and echoing against the walls of the now hushed canteen, which has lost all semblance of the lively chatter that once filled the air. I squeeze my eyes shut against the rising anxiety, half-expecting him to notice us—or, more precisely, me—beside the towering shadow of his son's presence. The feeling of being an intruder in this s
Last Updated : 2025-06-06 Read more