The view from the corner office of Vale-Cross Global hadn't changed in ten years, but the man looking at it had.Liam Cross stood at the window, nursing a cup of tea. He drank less coffee these days. Dr. Hale had been right about the cortisol; survival was a marathon, not a sprint.Behind him, at the smaller desk usually reserved for junior associates, sat Ethan.Ethan was sixteen now. He had grown into his height, filling out the lanky frame with the lean muscle of a runner. He wore a button-down shirt that fit him properly, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing wrists that looked capable.He was typing. Fast. The sound of the mechanical keyboard was a rapid-fire staccato in the quiet room."You're typing like you're angry at the code," Liam observed, turning around."I'm not angry," Ethan said, not looking up. "I'm optimizing. The legacy database for the foundation housing grants is a mess. It's built on spaghetti code from 2015. If I don't untangle it, the scholarship disburse
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