After the meeting had finished that evening, the next day began with an extremely hot morning.
The early sun cut through the clouds like a blade, scattering golden light across the marble helix of the Morrison Building.
From the 91st floor, Richard Morrison stood by the glass wall of his private study, a crystal tumbler of scotch in hand and the skyline of Los Alverez spread before him like an empire waiting to be claimed.
But not his empire.
Not anymore.
Archibald Mooney had returned.
And just like that, Richard was the second-richest man in the state again.
He took a slow sip of the aged Glenfarclas, letting the burn ride the back of his throat like a bitter truth.
The numbers had already started adjusting. Market confidence surged at the news of Archibald's return. His subsidiaries, his bonds, his government-linked asset vaults— they'd begun soaking up institutional attention like sponges.
Richard's fingers tapped the glass softly.
