Several miles away, inside a private conference room hidden beneath layers of security and secrecy, four people sat around a long black table. The atmosphere was tense, very tense, the kind of tension that made the air feel thick and difficult to breathe. Nobody spoke. Nobody moved. Because the man standing at the head of the room looked furious in a way that transcended ordinary anger, his rage contained so completely that it manifested as coldness, as stillness, as something far more dangerous than shouting or violence.
Silas.
His hands rested against the table, fingers spread wide, the only sign of his agitation. Eyes cold and flat, expression unreadable, which somehow made him even more terrifying than if he had been screaming. Across from him sat four individuals, each one carefully chosen, each one responsible for a segment of his operations, each one now feeling the weight of his displeasure like a physical pressure against their chests.
