T.B. leaned back in the swivel chair, his fingers laced tightly behind his neck, the relaxed posture betraying nothing of the simmering thoughts beneath. He allowed himself to feel superior as he watched Layla Smith's long, lithe legs—so perfectly straight, so undeniably graceful, like those of a ballerina—fill all eight screens. Her every movement, every shift of muscle, captivated him, as if the world had narrowed to the hypnotic rhythm of her body. The pair of seductive limbs, as they passed languidly over Anderson's face on screen, seemed to hold some unspoken mystery—something that hovered just out of reach but threatened to pull him in deeper with each passing second.
"Anderson Jr. Seely," T.B. muttered, the name slipping from his lips like an insult, thick with envy. There was no mistaking the raw jealousy in his voice, the bitter taste of frustration gnawing at him as he watched this young man—this upstart, barely out of his adolescence—draw the favor of T.B.'s boss. He was everything T.B. wasn't: fresh, untainted, and favored by fate. Anderson Jr. Seely had the dual blessing of both knowledge and power—two forces that could only be rivaled by a select few. But what really grated on T.B.'s nerves was the unfair truth he could not escape: knowledge always trumps power. It had the ability to control both mind and body, bending the most indomitable wills. T.B. had learned this painful truth over years of watching men who wielded raw strength only to fall to those who held the keys to information. The irony, he reflected bitterly, was that William Smith—who never submitted to anyone—had almost bent to Anderson's will. He had witnessed something that left an indelible mark on his psyche: William Smith, the ever-powerful titan, bending to the whims of a man no older than Anderson Jr. Seely.
The sharp crackle of William Smith's voice from the intercom shattered the silence, jarring T.B. from his thoughts. It rang out coldly, direct and demanding, a stark contrast to the room's otherwise still air.
"T.B., come to my office. Now."
The command struck T.B. like a whip, snapping him into motion. Without a moment's hesitation, he grabbed the sleek Apple wireless optical mouse, his fingers moving with practiced precision. He clicked the mouse a few times—each click purposeful—until Layla Smith's image vanished from the screen, replaced by a new set of eight. And yet, there were now 64 smaller screens spread across the display, a vast array of watchful eyes.
Three of those screens remained blank, dark, lifeless. No signal. The remaining 61 flickered with activity—each camera perched in secret locations around the compound, eyes that never blinked, cataloging everything. Gates, corridors, fences—these were the innocuous labels. The harmless labels. But as T.B. scrolled through the feed, there were darker areas—"Room number 1," "Room number 2"—rooms that belonged to people with the same last name. Smith. The screens monitoring them were the only ones that remained black.
He stood slowly, his movements deliberate, and approached the door to William Smith's office. He knocked once, sharply, and when no invitation came, he opened the door without hesitation. He'd learned long ago that this was the way things worked with William Smith—unspoken rules, silent expectations.
Inside, William Smith sat behind his massive desk, the only sound in the room being the soft scratching of his pen against paper. He signed documents with the focus of a man who had no time for distractions. His head never lifted. His eyes never strayed from his work. A man who existed in his own world—a world that was vast and unforgiving.
T.B. stepped inside, the door creaking softly behind him. The room was suffocatingly still, the air thick with tension, as if it were holding its breath in anticipation of the next move.
Every time T.B. faced William Smith, the brightness of his usual grin would fade away. There was no place for warmth here, no room for the comfortable familiarity that usually marked his expressions. Not with William Smith. T.B. knew his place. He wasn't here to entertain; he was here to serve. Whether he smiled or frowned didn't matter. What mattered was that he did what was expected. Perfection was the only currency.
"Report." The command came from William Smith without a glance in his direction. His voice, as always, was smooth, calm—like the steady rhythm of a predator before the kill.
T.B. straightened, the air growing heavy in his lungs. "Yes, Sir." His voice was steady, despite the tremor he felt deep inside. "Last week, Mr. Anderson Jr. Seely finished his research on all the files and dossiers in the office. He attended Professor David's funeral on Thursday. Afterward, he spent the weekend in various bars, each night more reckless than the last. Specifically…"
T.B. paused, his mind racing as he reached into his pocket, pulling out his well-worn notebook, its pages filled with scribbles and fragmented notes. He flipped through them before reading aloud:
"Monday night, Mr. Anderson Jr. Seely took a taxi to the Eskimo Museum at 9 Charlie Street, Anchorage…"
"Stop." William Smith's frown deepened, a flash of irritation crossing his features. "Did I spend this amount of money to get these trivial results?"
The sting of William Smith's words hit T.B. with the force of a physical blow. It burned his pride and left him reeling, his stomach twisting with the sting of humiliation.
"Sir… there is more," T.B. said, pushing forward despite the discomfort. "There are other actions of note."
"Get to the point," William Smith cut in, his voice clipped, impatient. "I don't need to know about his routine. I want the significant details. Focus."
T.B. nodded, swallowing his frustration. "On Wednesday, Mr. Anderson Jr. Seely requested to purchase aerial maps taken from Maxar Technologies Ltd.'s GPS satellite system."
"I know. I approved it. Did he meet anyone? Did he speak to anyone from our rivals?"
"No, Sir. However, there is one more thing—on Friday, Mr. Anderson Jr. Seely sent an email to Lawyer Jonathan, a friend of his adopted parents."
"Stop wasting my time with these irrelevant details," William Smith snapped. Then, more measured, he added, "But continue. You've done well. What else? By the way, the password on his laptop—it's his date of birth, isn't it?"
"No, Sir. It's his adoptive mother's birthday," T.B. replied, his voice slightly lighter now, pleased to have provided the correct answer.
William Smith gave a brief, approving nod. "Very good."
T.B. allowed a smile to spread across his face, a grin that seemed too bright for the weight of the conversation, as if he'd just won a battle, even if it was a small one.
"One last thing," T.B. continued. "On Friday, Mr. Anderson Jr. Seely received an express parcel. It was sent by Professor David before his death."
William Smith's gaze lifted for the first time since T.B. had entered the room. His sharp eyes locked onto T.B., focused and intense. "And inside?"
"A USB containing data, a fairy tale book, and a stone. The USB and a scanned copy of the book have already been forwarded to your email. As for the rock… it's just a regular manganese rock. One that's often collected by geological researchers."
"Does Anderson Jr. Seely collect rocks?" William Smith's voice was laced with something sharper now, curiosity mixed with suspicion.
"No, Sir," T.B. answered quickly. "His adoptive father did before died."
William Smith's expression darkened slightly. "The stone. It needs to be examined. Report to me immediately if anything unusual surfaces. And now," he added, his tone shifting back to its usual commanding edge, "clear the papers from my desk. Pack my clothes into a suitcase and bring it down to the car. Drive me to the airport. I'm leaving for New York soon. You'll wait at the airport to pick up my daughter."
T.B. stiffened, his salute precise, the weight of the command pressing down on him. "Yes, Sir," he said, the finality of the words ringing in the room as he turned to complete the task.