THIRD PERSON POV
Killganon Ancestral Estate– Manhattan, New York
Bennett glanced at Alec with cool disdain before taking a seat beside their father.
Victoria crossed her arms, looking like she smelled blood in the water.
Marcus stayed near the door, unreadable.
Elias walked to the center of the room, leaning on his cane like a judge about to deliver a sentence.
"Alec," he said, "you've made a series of decisions that have endangered this family. You've allowed your illegitimate son to rise unchecked, and now he threatens the very foundation of our name. That is negligence. And negligence cannot be tolerated."
Alec's jaw tightened. "Father, I've given my life to this family. Don't—"
"You've fed on this family," Elias cut in sharply. "Draining resources. Making sloppy choices. Celebrating your own mediocrity while others clean up after you. I will not let you drag us down any further."
Alec surged to his feet. "You can't just—"
"I can," Elias said flatly. "And I am."
The old man turned to the others. "Effective immediately, Alec Killganon is stripped of all authority and standing within this family's business interests. His shares and voting rights are suspended pending legal transfer."
Victoria raised an eyebrow, clearly savoring the spectacle. Marcus said nothing.
Alec's face went red. "You're humiliating me in front of them no less—"
"You humiliated yourself," Elias replied without emotion. Then, turning to Bennett: "You are now acting heir to all Killganon operations. I expect you to stabilize this situation before that bastard boy grows into a real threat."
Bennett inclined his head smoothly. "Of course, Father. I've already started reviewing our financial structure. We'll move fast."
"See that you do," Elias said, lowering himself back into his chair. "This family rewards competence, not bloodline alone."
Alec's voice cracked with rage. "You can't just replace me like some middle manager!"
Elias met his eyes with pure steel. "I can replace anyone. Don't mistake kinship for immunity."
The room fell silent. The only sound was the steady tick of the antique clock on the mantle. Alec's breathing came harsh and uneven.
Finally, Elias spoke again, voice quieter but deadlier.
"Leave your keys, your access cards, and any family documents in this room before you walk out. When I need you, I'll call. Until then… you are nothing."
Alec stared at his siblings — Bennett smirking, Marcus and Gillian both watching impassively, Victoria already planning moves in her head — then back at his father.
"This isn't over," Alec muttered, though his voice lacked conviction.
Elias gave a single dismissive wave. "It is for you."
Alec slammed the leather folder on the table, tossed his keys beside it, and stormed out. The heavy door shut behind him with a thud that barely stirred the old man's cigar smoke.
Elias exhaled once, long and slow, then looked to Bennett.
"Prepare to crush that boy before he gets any stronger."
Bennett smiled faintly. "With pleasure."
___________________________
Little did they know, the puppeteer of their sudden urgency didn't even consider them a threat. After all, They're nothing in the face of [Ex Nihilo].
"They're so busy clawing at each other like dogs over table scraps," the Killian mused, "that they won't notice someone else walking off with the feast. And oh, what a feast it is..."
___________________________
CROSBY PHARMACEUTICALS Ltd.
Manhattan, New York
The skyline beyond the office windows glowed with late-afternoon haze, but Marcus Crosby Jr. barely noticed.
His office—sleek marble desk, leather chairs, brushed steel fixtures—felt more like a prison than the corner suite of a Fortune 500 company.
He sat hunched forward, elbows on his knees, his fingers buried in his thinning hair.
His reflection in the polished surface of the desk looked older than forty-five—red-rimmed eyes, sweat on his brow, jaw muscles clenched so tight they ached.
Killganon Pharmaceuticals.
The name itself made him grind his teeth. Every quarter, every single launch, they beat him.
Same resources. Same market reach. Yet their products were cheaper, faster, better reviewed—and now Crosby Pharmaceuticals' stock was in freefall.
A double-digit slide over eight weeks. Analysts calling for his resignation. Board members whispering.
His phone buzzed with another Bloomberg alert, and he slapped it face-down. He didn't need more bad news.
The crystal vodka bottle on his desk had been his only comfort for weeks. His fingers closed around it now—empty.
"Damn it!" His shout ripped through the office, raw and desperate. He hurled the bottle toward the wall of framed patents.
It should've shattered, spraying glass across the hardwood floor.
It didn't.
There was no crash. No impact. Only a calm voice.
"Easy there, broskie. Bad for your blood pressure."
Marcus looked up, startled, and froze.
A stranger stood casually in front of his bookcase, holding the bottle in one hand as if he'd plucked it out of the air.
The man looked absurdly out of place in Manhattan corporate culture: tan skin, sun-bleached blond hair brushing his shoulders, unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt showing a sculpted torso, khaki shorts, and cheap flip-flops.
He looked like he belonged on a Maui boardwalk, not inside the executive suite of a crumbling pharmaceutical empire.
"Who in the hell are you?" Marcus snapped, voice cracking. "Where's security? GUARDS!"
The man grinned, tossing the bottle onto the sofa like it weighed nothing. "Relax, dude. Seriously. You're wound up tighter than a snare drum."
Marcus blinked hard. Was this a hallucination? Stress could do that. Maybe he needed sleep. Maybe he was losing it entirely.
"This… this can't be real," he muttered.
"Oh, it's real, Brohamski. Real as that stress ulcer you're cultivating."
The man strolled forward, totally at ease, ignoring Marcus' shaking hands. "I'm just the delivery guy. My boss digs helping people in a… mutually beneficial way."
He dropped a small black case onto Marcus' desk with a soft thunk.
"Inside, you'll find formulas for three medications. Legit game-changers. You make 'em. You launch 'em. In return, you point the big guns at Killganon Pharmaceuticals. No questions asked. No strings, man. Totally chill arrangement."
Marcus hesitated, his skepticism warring with temptation. He reached for the box. It was heavier than it looked. Inside: three sealed vials, each crystalline-clear and carefully labeled.
Instant Common Cold Cure.
Erectile Dysfunction Cure.
Hyper-Recovery Solution (33% avg. acceleration).
Beside them, a thumb drive.
His pulse spiked. If these were legitimate, then these weren't incremental improvements.
These were nothing short of miracles. Drugs that could dominate markets overnight, save billions in research, and crush Elias Killganon like an insect.
He looked up to demand answers—but the man was gone. No door opened. No sound of retreating footsteps. Just empty air.
Marcus Crosby Jr. stood alone in his office, breathing hard, the distant hum of Manhattan traffic pressing against the glass.
He felt the weight of the case in his hands—cool, solid, real.
A slow grin broke across his face, sharp and hungry.
"Elias…" he whispered, tucking the case under his arm, "I'm coming for you."
The elevator dinged somewhere down the hall as Marcus headed for the private lab.
The man who orchestrated it all grinned and hummed a nursery rhyme older than himself.
🎶Once around a mulberry bush, a monkey chased a weasel🎶
🎶The monkey thought all was good fun... but POP! goes the weasel...🎶