Rafael and James pulled up to the towering glass fortress of the headquarters, the car gliding to a smooth halt as a valet in a crisp black uniform stepped forward to take the keys. The building rose above them like a monument of power—sleek, cold, and breathtaking. Inside, the lobby thrummed with energy. The rhythmic click of polished shoes against marble echoed around them. Employees straightened their backs, nodding respectfully as the two men passed through. Rafael barely acknowledged them; his mind was elsewhere, sharp and restless.
They entered Rafael's corner office. The city stretched beneath like a living map, bustling and oblivious to the quiet intensity inside those walls. Dark leather chairs, brushed steel, and warm amber lights gave the room a quiet authority. This was Rafael's throne room.
