The Boardroom didn’t have walls; it had **margins**. Beyond the floating mahogany table, the stars weren't stars—they were tiny, flickering footnotes in a language I couldn’t read, citations of a billion lives used to fund the high-back chairs we were standing before.
The CEO—the man who wore my father’s face like a bespoke suit—didn’t blink. His grey eyes were cataracts of pure data. He tapped a crystal carafe on the table, and the sound echoed like a gavel in a courtroom at the end of time.
"Sit, Elara," he repeated. "And Silas... do try to keep your 'Shadow-Artifacts' off the upholstery. We just had it rendered in 'High-Fidelity Silk'."
Silas didn't sit. He moved like a panther made of ink, circling the perimeter of the floating platform. His obsidian blades were low, humming a disco
