Victor Numen had always prided himself on patience, patience that turned storms into summer drizzle and time itself into a manageable inconvenience. But as the third meeting of the morning droned on, he began to feel that patience stretch thin, like silk pulled taut over the edge of a blade.
The boardroom was designed for immortals: ceilings lost somewhere in the glass glow above, walls lined with living ether circuits that pulsed faintly like veins, and a long black table that reflected power as much as it absorbed it. The directors sat in two neat rows, their suits immaculate, their fear better concealed than their boredom. Holographic reports flickered between them, cascading columns of figures, projections, and percentages, all important but none particularly interesting.
