~~~~~~
Baron's Study Room.
Since returning from Horace's office, President Baron Von Stucker had been nothing short of restless. The heavy mahogany clock on the wall ticked mercilessly, its echo piercing through the suffocating silence of his study. He had poured himself a drink — whiskey, aged twenty-two years — but his trembling hands refused to raise the glass.
He paced back and forth, every step echoing the weight of his downfall. Horace's words kept replaying in his mind like a curse he couldn't shake off — every sentence sharp, every tone deliberate, every look filled with quiet authority that broke even the strongest of men.
He could still feel the sting of humiliation in his chest.
"Forty-eight hours," Horace had said, his voice deep, calm, yet merciless — a promise that felt more like a death sentence.
