Smoke still lingered in the air days after the explosion. The Imperial Crest no longer shone like the city's crown; it stood wounded, its glass façade scarred with soot. But beneath the ruin, something else was rising, quiet, deliberate, unbreakable.
John Raymond sat at the head of the emergency board table for the first time. The conference room smelled faintly of charred wiring and disinfectant. Around him sat the senior managers, journalists' headlines glowing on their tablets. FIRE AT THE IMPERIAL CREST: SABOTAGE OR NEGLIGENCE?
"We've confirmed it wasn't an accident," Shack said from his seat beside John. "The explosive was military-grade, planted directly beneath the network servers."
"And Harrison?" Dalton, the chairman, asked.
"Still missing," Shack replied. "Interpol has his name on the watch list, but no sightings."
John's tone was steady. "He'll surface. Men like him always believe they can come back."
Dalton rubbed his temples. "The board is divided. Some want to suspend all operations until the investigation ends. Others insist we reopen to limit losses."
"We reopen," John said firmly.
Dalton looked up, surprised. "You would risk it this soon?"
John's voice was quiet but commanding. "The longer we stay closed, the more control we lose. Harrison wants panic. He wants silence. We will give him the opposite: light, noise, movement. The Crest must breathe again."
No one argued. His certainty had weight now. The boy who once carried luggage now spoke with the authority of a man who rebuilt empires.
By evening, workers filled the halls. The broken panels were replaced, the scorched marble scrubbed clean. News vans still hovered outside, but John met every camera with composure.
"The Imperial Crest stands as a symbol of resilience," he told the reporters. "We suffered an attack, yes, but we are not victims. We are builders. And builders rebuild."
The clip went viral overnight. Public sympathy shifted. Reservations trickled back. The lion was roaring again.
In his office, John studied a list of new security protocols. Rita entered, holding a folder. "These came in from the audit department. I thought you'd want to see them personally."
He gestured for her to sit. "What did you find?"
She opened the folder, revealing a series of bank statements and emails. "Collins used a fake company account called BlueStone Logistics to channel money. Rose authorised several of the transfers. The trail ends with an offshore fund under the name H.W. Holdings."
John frowned. "Harrison West."
"Exactly." She exhaled, the weight of the revelation clear in her tone. "He's building something, a new investment firm. The transactions suggest he's trying to buy out one of the Crest's suppliers."
"Which supplier?"
"Meridian Catering. They handle all event contracts for the hotel."
John leaned back, piecing it together. "He wants control of our supply chain. If he owns Meridian, he can choke our operations from outside."
Rita looked at him nervously. "What will you do?"
"Turn his own method against him," John said. "Feed him what he expects, but make sure it leads to me."
She tilted her head. "You're setting a trap."
He gave a small, cold smile. "He started this fire. I'll let him walk into the smoke."
That night, the city glittered beyond the hotel windows. Shack arrived carrying a sealed briefcase. "The financial bait is ready," he said. "We've created fake account logs showing Meridian underreporting profits. It will look like a perfect opportunity for Harrison's people to exploit."
John nodded. "Send the data through the same corrupted channel Collins used. They'll take the bite."
Shack hesitated. "And when they do?"
"I'll be waiting."
Shack studied him a moment. "You're becoming him."
John looked up. "No. I'm becoming what he feared."
Shack didn't argue. He only said, "Then be careful. Power has its own hunger."
Two days later, word came through a private contact — someone had accessed the false Meridian files. The trace led to a small office complex on the outskirts of the city. Shack confirmed it matched the signal of H.W. Holdings.
John ordered the surveillance team to stand by. But that night, as rain lashed against the windows of his penthouse, an unease gnawed at him. He couldn't shake the feeling that the enemy's hand was already inside the Crest's walls.
His phone buzzed. It was Rita. Her voice trembled. "John, you need to come downstairs. Now."
"What happened?"
"It's Rose," she said. "She's here."
The lobby was quiet when he arrived, lit only by the dim reflection of stormlight. Rose stood near the centre, her clothes soaked from the rain, her makeup streaked. Two guards flanked her, but she didn't resist.
John approached slowly. "You have a nerve walking back in here."
She lifted her chin, defiant. "I came to talk."
"You should have done that before planting a bomb."
Her eyes flashed. "That wasn't me. Harrison made me set the timer, but I never meant for it to go off when people were still inside."
"You expect me to believe that?"
"I have proof," she said quickly. "He's not done, John. He's planning something bigger. Meridian is just a distraction."
John's gaze hardened. "Where is he?"
"I don't know," she said, tears mixing with rain. "But he's using someone inside. Someone close."
Before he could respond, Shack entered, a phone in his hand. "We've got a hit. The fake data was accessed again, but this time from our own internal server."
John froze. "By who?"
Shack hesitated. "Rita's login."
The words hit like a blow. John turned sharply, looking toward the stairs. Rita stood halfway down, pale, eyes wide.
"That's not possible," she said, voice shaking. "I didn't…"
Rose gave a bitter laugh. "Believe me now? He's turning you all against each other."
Shack raised his phone. "The signal was routed from the receptionist's terminal. It's undeniable."
John's expression turned unreadable. "Bring her to my office."
Rita's eyes filled with panic. "John, please, you know me. I wouldn't…"
He cut her off. "We'll find out the truth soon enough."
The guards moved forward. Rose smiled faintly, satisfaction flickering across her face. "He's already inside your walls," she whispered.
Thunder cracked above the hotel, shaking the glass windows.
Minutes later, Rita stood trembling in John's office. The rain outside beat hard against the panes. Shack plugged a flash drive into the computer, displaying the server logs. The evidence was clear: access had come from Rita's terminal, exactly at the time the fake data leaked.
"I wasn't even there," she said, voice breaking. "Someone must have cloned my credentials."
"Or you gave them away," Shack said coldly.
"I didn't!" she cried. "You have to believe me."
John's eyes didn't move from the screen. His voice was low, steady. "Belief is earned, not begged for."
She took a step toward him. "After everything, you think I'd betray you?"
He looked at her at last, his gaze like tempered steel. "I think betrayal wears many faces. Until I see proof, you are one of them."
Tears slid down her face, but she said nothing more. The guards escorted her out.
When they were gone, Shack exhaled. "You think she's innocent?"
John stared at the darkened window. "I think she's being used."
"Then who's behind it?"
He turned from the glass, his voice quiet. "The one who knows how I think."
Shack frowned. "Harrison?"
John nodded slowly. "He's not hiding anymore. He's watching."
Lightning flashed, illuminating the skyline, and for an instant, a shadow moved on the opposite rooftop.
John stepped closer to the window, eyes narrowing.
"Tell security to seal every exit," he said. "The trap just closed, but not on him."
Shack followed his gaze, confusion flickering. "What do you mean?"
John's voice was calm, but his pulse thundered in his ears.
"He wanted me to suspect her. That means he's coming tonight."
Outside, rain poured harder, drowning the city in silver. Somewhere in the storm, Harrison smiled.
And the Imperial Crest braced for another war.