In a dimly lit room lined with monitors, a figure leaned back in a leather chair, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. The walls were covered in photographs, some of Sharon entering and exiting work, others of Bruce Hill in board meetings, and Jacob Sims brooding in his office.
The man took a sip of whiskey from a crystal glass, the amber liquid glinting in the flickering light of the screens. His phone buzzed on the desk. He picked it up, reading Sharon’s stunned reply to his latest message.
Sharon:
"Who are you? What do you want from me?"
He chuckled, a low, menacing sound that echoed in the room.
"Ah, Sharon," he murmured. "Still playing the game without knowing the rules."
The figure stood and walked toward the largest monitor, where a live feed of Sharon’s office was displayed. He
