On the screen, Sam Elliott appeared almost unrecognizable. His nose had caved in, bent grotesquely to one side. Blood covered his swollen face, his features puffed up so badly he looked less like a man and more like a butchered animal. Behind him, his office was a war zone—shattered glass smeared with streaks of red, a splintered desk crushed inward as if someone had driven a sledgehammer into it, and bodies sprawled everywhere, twitching, groaning, clutching their ribs or legs as if they’d been run over by a truck.
The c*****e was so raw, so visceral, that the room full of executives gasped in collective terror.
Someone even choked on their breath.
This… this wasn’t a negotiation.
This was a m******e.
Several of them turned, almost mechanically, toward the mountain of cash still rest
