The wall clock inside one of Los Angeles’s exclusive restaurants showed exactly four o’clock in the afternoon. The atmosphere inside was calm and elegant, with soft instrumental music playing quietly in the background. At one of the tables near the window, Gevan Daxon was already seated neatly in his dark suit.

He had arrived early. An old habit he always maintained, especially when it came to important business matters.

Gevan glanced at the watch on his wrist.

“Four fifteen,” he murmured quietly.

He straightened his back and folded his hands on the table. His expression remained neutral, yet something had begun to bother him. Fifteen minutes had passed, and the...