The dragon laser still hovered over the skyline when the storm finally rolled in.
Not the kind with rain. The kind with silence. With doors closing and phones going dead. The kind that only men like Mr. Brooks noticed—too late.
It started small with a delayed shipment.
An unexpectedly frozen account.
Then, without warning, Brooks Industries' quarterly liquidity dried up like water on a skillet. Employees missed payroll. Vendors stopped responding. Overseas partners ghosted without explanation.
Ryan Brooks slammed his father’s office door one morning, eyes bloodshot. “They’re freezing us out.”
Mr. Brooks, usually calm in storm or scandal, looked old. His tailored suit hung loose, his tie undone. “We’re being bled.”
Ryan leaned on the desk. “Who’s doing it?”
His father didn’t answer.
