Behind the heavy door lay a converted warehouse, now a private gallery. It was windowless, the air thick with the scent of aged paper and dust. The cold light from the overhead fixtures made the space feel sterile, unforgiving, as if the room itself was holding its breath.
Dominic stood in the center of the room. His posture was rigid, almost statue-like, but the tension coiling through his shoulders betrayed the storm beneath.
His gaze was fixed on a massive luminescent projection screen on the wall, filled with a dense web of red line graphs. Before him sat a stainless steel table littered with documents. The paper was yellowed, the edges curled with char marks as if they had been salvaged from a fire. Some pages were so brittle that the slightest touch might turn them to dust.
"Boss,
