POV: Asher Nightshade.
The once-pristine boardroom smelled like cold coffee and fear. Half the chairs were empty. The skyline beyond the glass wall felt distant—gray and uncaring.
Asher stood at the head of the table. He looked tired in a way that wasn’t just physical—like something had hollowed him out, and he was still trying to figure out what parts were left.
Across from him sat Marisol Vega, sharp-eyed and impeccably dressed despite the chaos. She’d been with the company since the beginning. Not a friend, exactly—but loyal when it counted.
Three investors remained. Older men, hardened by years of risk. One tapped a pen against a notepad. Another scrolled his phone like he wanted to be anywhere else.
ASHER (steady)
You all read the report. We’re hemorrhaging faster than projected
