Liam Livingston stared at the glowing screen of his smartphone, the red and green bars of the market charts looking like jagged scars across the display. He didn't bother offering a polite farewell; he simply ended the call with a sharp tap. His fingers drummed a rhythmic, menacing tattoo on the mahogany surface of his desk. His brow was knitted in a tight furrow of disbelief and calculation.
How did the Livingston Dynasty suddenly mobilize this much liquid capital? he mused. To crash a city's entire economy just to smoke out one 'disgraced' heir... it’s not just expensive; it’s pathological.
After a few minutes of cold, internal tactical analysis, Liam picked up the phone again. He made three calls in rapid succession: Ulysses Yates, CEO Quinn, and Harper Lane. The urgency in his voice
