At that very moment, far away from the chaos in Lisle City, in a vast countryside manor hidden deep within Alderton Hills in southern England, an elderly man slowly placed the telephone receiver back onto its stand.
The room was quiet, filled only with the soft crackling sound of the fireplace.
Despite being close to eighty years old, Reginald Winston stood tall, his posture steady and his presence commanding. Time had aged his body, but not his mind. His sharp eyes still carried the same cold calculation that had built his power over decades.
Across from him, his eldest son, Sebastian Winston, sat comfortably in a leather armchair, one hand resting against the armrest as he watched his father closely.
He had been observing him the entire time.
Finally, he spoke, his tone calm but fil
