The elevator ride was silent.
Ren watched the numbers descend without really seeing them, his reflection ghosted faintly across the mirrored wall. Calm surface. Controlled breathing. Nothing outward betrayed the faint unease settling at the back of his mind.
The Norilsk claim should have felt decisive.
It didn't.
Too clean. Too fast. Thirty-year exclusivity rarely ended without at least one spiteful counterplay. Someone had stepped aside instead of fighting. That alone warranted caution.
The elevator doors opened into the executive lobby.
At this hour, the space felt cavernous. Marble floors reflected muted lighting. Security staff stood at their stations, posture straight, movements minimal. Kingswell employees were trained to project stability, even when they didn't understand the full picture.
Ren nodded once as he passed. Routine acknowledgments. Nothing unusual.
Yet.
He crossed the lobby and entered the private corridor reserved for senior family access. The doors sealed behind him with a soft hydraulic hiss, cutting off the rest of the building. The air here was warmer, quieter, designed to feel insulated from the rest of the tower.
His comm bead chimed again.
"Security logs are uploading now," the night chief said. "No breaches detected."
"No anomalies?" Ren asked.
A pause. Short. Fractional.
"Nothing actionable."
Ren stored the response away without comment. People often mistook reassurance for certainty. He had learned early that the two rarely overlapped.
"Send me the raw feed," he said. "Not the summary."
"Yes, sir."
The corridor curved gently toward the private elevator that led underground. Ren walked alone, footsteps soft against polished stone. The walls were lined with abstract art pieces commissioned decades earlier. Symbols of continuity. Of permanence.
Of ownership.
He slowed near one of the panels, fingers brushing the edge of a concealed access seam. His father had once told him that the most important systems were the ones people forgot were there.
Ren didn't forget.
A soft vibration passed through the floor. Subtle enough that most people wouldn't notice. He stopped fully this time, listening, feeling the structure respond beneath his feet.
The building compensated. Load redistributed. Power flow stabilized.
Automatic systems working as intended.
Still, Ren frowned.
The private elevator recognized his presence and opened without prompt. He stepped inside, the doors sliding shut with finality.
As the car descended, data streamed across his retinal display. Security feeds. Network timestamps. Power fluctuations measured in milliseconds. Everything looked… normal.
Which was the problem.
Ren exhaled slowly through his nose.
"You don't win by being the strongest," his mother's voice echoed faintly in memory. "You win by noticing when the rules stop behaving."
The elevator slowed.
The doors parted.
The private garage lay beyond, dimly lit, concrete pillars rising like silent sentinels. His car waited exactly where it should have been. Security lights pulsed at their usual intervals.
Order.
Ren took one step forward.
Then another.
The air tasted wrong.
Metallic. Sharp. Like a storm about to break.
He stopped.
"Status," he said quietly.
Static answered.
Ren didn't move.
Silence, in systems designed to never be silent, was never accidental.
From the far end of the garage, something shifted.
Not rushed. Not clumsy.
Intentional.
Ren's stance adjusted, weight settling naturally, his hand drifting closer to his sleeve. His heartbeat slowed rather than spiked. Training overrode instinct, leaving only focus.
A figure stepped into the light.
Its outline wavered, as if the air around it refused to settle. Not bulky. Not thin. Just… wrong.
"A Kingswell," the figure said, voice low and distorted, like sound pulled through a damaged speaker. "Still working this late."
Ren met its gaze evenly.
"You're standing on private ground," he said. "And you're early."
The figure tilted its head.
Confusion flickered across its posture for the briefest moment.
Then it smiled.
And moved.