The elevator glided silently up, the glass walls offering Anirudh a panoramic view of the city he effortlessly controlled. Down below, three hundred lives had just been violently uprooted by a single command. He felt no guilt, only a cold satisfaction at the demonstration of efficiency. The failure of one manager was an opportunity to prune the dead weight and remind the city of his rules.
The media frenzy was irrelevant. Anirudh was already focused on a far more significant issue: a challenge to his authority from the highest levels.
He stepped onto the executive floor where his personal assistant, Vikram, was waiting by a sleek black desk.
"Your Highness, the news of the Logistics Division is trending," Vikram reported, handing him a fresh cup of Assam tea. "More press calls than we can manage."
"Ignore them," Anirudh commanded, his eyes fixed on a wall of high-definition monitors. "What about the Finance Ministry? Did they attempt to block the merger as threatened?"
Vikram hesitated, his professional composure wavering for the first time. "They did, Your Highness. Minister Sharma signed the injunction two hours ago, citing antitrust laws. It's on every major financial wire."
Anirudh took a slow sip of his tea. The air in the room seemed to drop ten degrees. "An injunction." He repeated the word, tasting its defiance. "Does Sharma believe his signature is somehow more powerful than mine?"
He walked to the window, watching the movement of the clouds—a pattern he could not control, which likely irritated him more than the Minister's action.
"Vikram, call the Chief of Staff. Tell him I need the Minister's resignation on my desk by 9 PM tonight, signed and notarized."
"Sir, that is impossible," Vikram stated, his voice low. "Minister Sharma is politically untouchable. He has three decades of seniority and the full backing of the ruling party. A move like this will trigger a market crash."
Anirudh turned from the window, a flicker of genuine rage in his dark eyes.
"Good," he said, his voice a lethal whisper. "Let it crash. I own the markets. But I do not own the Minister."
He picked up a heavy crystal paperweight and tapped it twice on the glass desk.
"Call my trading floor. Instruct them to execute the 'Firestorm Protocol.' They know the orders: Liquidate every single share in the Infrastructure Index. Pull all credit lines from the rival conglomerates. Show Minister Sharma the cost of inconveniencing Anirudh Singh Rathore. By dawn, he will be lucky to afford the paper for his resignation letter."
Vikram's face was pale. This was not a business threat; it was an act of financial terrorism, a brutal demonstration that Anirudh viewed the entire economy as his personal weapon.
"Understood, Your Highness," Vikram managed to say, his hand already moving toward the intercom. "Firestorm Protocol initiated."
Anirudh leaned back in his chair, a cold, satisfied calm returning to his face. "When the government challenges the lion," he mused, adjusting the gold cufflink on his wrist, "the lion reminds them who rules the jungle."
The financial world was about to break. And Anirudh didn't even bother to watch the screens.