The sound of a fountain pen scratching against heavy, archival-quality paper is remarkably quiet, yet in the sprawling, glass-walled boardroom of Tanaka Holdings, it sounded like the striking of a gavel.I sat near the center of the massive mahogany table, the afternoon sun glaring off the polished surface, casting long, sharp reflections across the room. We were fifty floors above the city, suspended in a sterile, corporate stratosphere that felt entirely alien compared to the velvet-draped, subterranean warmth of Elysium. But today, this sunlit room was our battlefield, and the war was finally ending not with a physical blow, but with a signature.Beside me, Victor sat with his broad shoulders relaxed, though his dark eyes tracked the movement of the pen with the lethal, unblinking focus of a predator watching its prey finally bleed out. He wore a flawless, midnight-blue suit, the Master of
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