Planet Brava – Mid-belt Sector 100
"Hah..."
Bang.
"Are we done now yet?"
Bang.
"Do we have an agreement in this damn day or not?!"
Caesar's voice thundered across the chamber, thick with ire and the unmistakable weight of authority. He leaned forward, bracing both hands against the edge of the round negotiation table, his knuckles whitening from pressure. The table, made from dense blackstone mined from the under-crust of Cravon 9, had withstood decades of war-room debates—yet it creaked beneath Caesar's fury like glass beneath a hammer.
On the opposite side sat an old man who, despite his stately appearance, now resembled a wilting monument. His thick white mustache twitched as he frowned. He stared down, not meeting Caesar's eyes. A few droplets of sweat beaded at the top of his scalp and slowly made their way down his temple.
After several seconds of silence, the old man finally muttered in a voice barely louder than a whisper:
