DERRICK BLACKWOOD'S POV
My father's house in the hills, the estate they still referred to as the Fortress, felt less like a sanctuary and more like a tomb. It was built of imported stone and absolute secrecy, designed to project an image of impregnable power. Yet, in the last seventy-two hours, the walls had been breached not by bullets, but by cold, precise calculation. The air, usually thick with the scent of old money and quiet assurance, now carried the metallic tang of panic and failure.
I was in my private study, staring at a half-dozen encrypted reports displayed across the secure terminal. The screens were supposed to be showing asset growth and logistical efficiencies. Instead, they were all screaming the same brutal reality: Ruin.
