The sound of keys clacking, pens scratching, and soft murmurs echo through the war room I call my office. Midnight ink spills across blue-lit screens, and the hum of overhead lights mixes with the scent of burnt coffee and sharpened strategy.
The night before a storm always feels like this—still, charged, reverent. The calm before a calculated massacre.
I sit at the long obsidian table that stretches like a runway through my office's central chamber, flanked by floor-to-ceiling screens and softly purring servers. My blazer hangs over the back of my chair. Sleeves rolled, hair twisted into a sleek knot, I look every inch the war general—not a hint of softness tonight.
Celeste lounges to my left, boots propped on the table, tablet in one hand, coffee in the other. Her lipstick is wine-dark, matching her mood. Across from us are three of my most trusted board members—wolves with minds as sharp as their instincts. Quiet, focused. They understand what's at stake.
