"If this strike fails, your soul belongs to the underground cartel forever," the Broker warned, his voice echoing cold and final through the wet shadows of the badlands sub-station.
Miles away from that dripping wasteland, the sun rose over the glass spires of Aethelgard Prime. Daylight flooded the central trading floor of Vanguard Tower, casting long, clean light across rows of glowing holoscreens and hums of quantum processing drives.
Gerald stood at the center of the glass observation platform, overlooking the vast financial war room. He wore a crisp dark tuxedo, his posture rigid and towering as his cybernetic eyes tracked thousands of moving stock indices simultaneously.
"Initiate sequence Omega-Seven immediately," Gerald ordered, his voice low and devoid of fatigue despite the
