The grand conference hall of the tech summit didn't just buzz—it vibrated, like the building itself had plugged into a live wire. Towering screens flanked the stage, blasting every twitch of expression to a global audience while live comments poured down the feeds like digital confetti from a very dramatic parade. The air smelled like money—expensive colognes, luxury perfumes, and overpriced floral centerpieces—but underneath it all was that sharp, metallic scent of anticipation. The kind that says something is about to explode… socially.
Onstage, Rafael Vexley sat in his wheelchair, looking less like a victim and more like a king who happened to be seated. Even sitting, he commanded the space—tall frame, tailored designer suit, sharp jawline, broad shoulders, and dark wavy hair catching the light like it was on a magazine shoot. His steel-grey eyes didn't just shine—they burned, controlled fury simmering behind them like a storm waiting for permission.
