In the cold, pressurized silence of the subterranean bunker, Lance Sterling’s voice cracked like brittle glass. His face, a swollen map of dark, bruised purple kontusions and dried blood, contorted with a frantic, desperate rage as he glared at Liam Livingston.
"Livingston, you piece of trash! Don't you dare push your luck with me!" he shrieked, his voice hitting a glass-shattering register of pure entitlement.
Liam’s brow arched in a slow, clinical display of amusement. He didn't look like a man who had just survived an alchemical k********g; he looked like a predator watching an insect struggle in a web. "Oh?" he murmured, his voice a smooth, resonant baritone. "So, you’re familiar with the concept of 'pushing your luck'? I’m impressed, Lance. I didn't think the Sterling Trust invested
