The satellite feed flickered twice before stabilizing—shit infrastructure in the midwest, always the same problem. Zeno adjusted his position in the burgundy leather wingback, its brass studs catching lamplight as he watched encrypted data streams populate across three monitors mounted in carved mahogany frames. Another shipment rerouted and another payment confirmed. The Connections didn't run itself, though sometimes he wished the damn thing would.

His penthouse sat two hundred kilometers from the nearest town, buried in the Midwest flatlands where nobody had any business looking. The space wrapped around him like old money—dark walnut paneling, velvet drapes the color of dried blood, art deco fixtures that cost more than most people's cars. Comfortable. Isolation meant control, and control meant nobody walked through that door unless he wanted them to.

Victor's latest funding request blinked in his inbox—twelve million for "accelerated testing phases." The man had vision, Zeno would give him that. Vision and just enough desperation to be useful. Power wasn't about having money, however. It was more about knowing exactly where to put it, who to own, and when to pull the trigger on both.

The espresso machine hissed from the kitchen alcove. His white shirt sleeves were rolled to the elbows—no point in formality when you're alone.

His phone buzzed—an unscheduled contact. The security system hadn't flagged any breaches, but someone had just pinged his private relay. Zeno's fingers hovered over the keyboard, eyes narrowing at the blinking notification.

Interesting.

He pulled up the trace protocol, watching the origin point resolve. Not a threat. Not yet, anyway.

"Let's see who's stupid enough to find me today," he muttered, opening the channel.