The morning light struggled to pierce through the heavy velvet curtains of Gillian’s study, casting long, sickly shadows across the mahogany desk. Gillian sat slumped in his high backed chair, his fingers tracing the edge of a stack of documents that felt more like lead weights than paper. Every instinct in his body screamed for rest, yet his mind was trapped in a relentless loop of phantom echoes. Elena was gone, and the silence she had left behind was far louder than any battlefield he had ever walked.
"Focus, Gillian," he muttered to himself, his voice raspy and devoid of its usual steady confidence. "The syndicate will not wait for you to mourn. They are already circling, waiting for a single moment of weakness."
He reached for his fountain pen, intending to sign a transfer order
