6:00 AM. The Penthouse.

The sun was just beginning to bleed over the horizon, painting the NY lagoon in shades of bruised purple and grey. Inside the penthouse, the air was cold, conditioned to a sterile chill.

Damian Cross stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling mirror, adjusting his tie. He didn’t look tired, despite not having slept. He looked like a blade—sharpened, polished, and ready to draw blood.

Max stood behind him, a tablet in hand, his face grim.

“The statement is ready, boss,” Max said. “But are you sure about this angle? The board won’t like it. The public will call you a tyrant.”

Damian turned, his expression unreadable....