—Damon—
I inspected the recovered goods under the cold warehouse lights. The air smelled of oil, metal, and dust—honest work, the kind that stains your hands even if you never lift a crate. Trackers were already removed. Clean. Precise. Everything accounted for.
I lifted the gemstones—raw brilliance smuggled out of our own mining company and rerouted here. Stolen, yes, but with the quiet blessing of a corrupt government that prefers envelopes to paperwork. Shipping it directly would've been sloppy. Too many hands. Too many mouths asking for more. This way, control stays with me.
I sealed the box and took it.
"We're done here, Caine."
He grabbed what he needed—mostly pieces he'd turn into gifts for his wife. The rest would be fed back into production, into materials and experiments. In the corner sat our newest toys: a newly engineered gun and its matching ammunition. Rare. Efficient. Lethal in a way that respects craftsmanship.
