The next morning, the sun broke through the storm clouds, casting a sharp, blinding light over the towering glass facades of Wall Street. The pristine, reflective surfaces of the financial district looked entirely indifferent to the sudden, silent slaughter occurring within their walls. Inside the executive corner office of the Thorne Investment Fund, the air was dead, cold, and completely paralyzed by a sudden, catastrophic panic. The phones were ringing in a continuous, deafening wall of sound, a relentless chorus of furious prime brokers, institutional investors, and terrified legal compliance officers. The red line lights flashed across the global trading terminals like an active, bleeding alarm grid, each blinking bulb signaling the systematic shutdown of a multi-billion-dollar empire. Julian Thorne stood behind his massive, custom-built obsidian desk. His sharp charcoal suit from the gala was now crumpled, his necktie ripped away, his hair messy and falling into his eyes. H
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