The conference room was dim. Low amber lights flickered above a long obsidian table, casting elongated shadows across the faces seated around it.
At the head of the table sat the Bald Old Man the leader. Deep lines cut across his face like cracks in old stone. He drummed his fingers on the table, sharp and deliberate.
He clicked his tongue.
"Tsk… Our horse fell down."
Silence stretched, tense and uncomfortable.
To his right, a man in a fitted gray blazer leaned forward. Ron, sharp-featured and slick-haired, gave a tight nod.
"We won't let that happen again. My team will win. I promise you that."
Across from him, Jerry, a man in his forties with a fox-like grin and glasses perched low on his nose, chuckled and leaned in, elbows resting on the table.
"Promises, promises," he said, amused. "But I'm more entertained that Vorpal Basket actually beat Roanoke Storm. Unexpected, but… quite entertaining."
His laughter echoed softly until it was cut short.
