A sharp tremor caught in Danara's throat, steadying as she met Zaren’s focused gaze. His thumbs, gentle against her skin, carried a warmth that was both grounding and utterly disarming. She rested against the pressure of his hands, conscious of their shared history and the immediate peril hanging over them. He had nearly died. *Again*. The knowledge from her future self, a persistent phantom limb, throbbed with renewed urgency. “The hunt is on,” he repeated, his voice a low rumble, the words a challenge she felt deep in her bones. “He’s desperate. That makes him volatile.” “And predictable,” Danara countered, her voice quiet but firm. She pulled away slightly, the contact breaking with a subtle reluctance, and walked to the panoramic window overlooking the sprawling Morzanto skyline. The city glittered, a grid of glass towers and predatory debt, ripe for dismantling. “He’ll try to spin it before the cameras. Reassure the market. Feign complete control.” Zaren stepped to her side. “The Kosta-Tassion Holdings emergency press briefing convenes in the Grand Concourse of the Altair Centre in thirty minutes. Every major news outlet and key investor will attend. A clean venue for an execution.” A grim curve touched his lips. Danara allowed herself a small, mirthless smile in return. “Exactly. Timo is already in position.” They arrived at the Altair Centre with minutes to spare, ushered into a private, soundproofed viewing box suspended high above the main floor. Below, a sea of journalists jostled for position, their lenses glinting under the harsh studio lights. Financial analysts whispered urgently into phones, their faces a mixture of concern and predatory expectation. On the raised dais, Brevin Kosta, impeccable in a suit the color of old money, adjusted the microphone. His face, carefully composed, displayed an air of indignant confidence, as if *he* were the wronged party. “Observe the Golden Gavel rules,” Danara murmured, leaning closer to Zaren. The statutes governing televised corporate disputes in Morzanto were arcane, but precise. “Once he starts his official statement, the broadcast is protected for ten minutes against external interference, to prevent market manipulation. After that, anything goes.” Zaren nodded, his attention fixed on Brevin below. “A countdown to chaos.” Brevin began, his voice smooth and resonant, weaving a narrative of baseless accusations and corporate sabotage aimed at Kosta-Tassion Holdings. He blamed anonymous competitors, short-sellers, and even hinted at a coordinated smear campaign. His eyes, cold and calculating, swept over the gathered crowd, pausing momentarily on the digital teleprompter where his carefully crafted lies scrolled into view. He paused for dramatic effect, allowing the camera to linger on his face, a picture of wounded integrity. “These fabricated claims,” Brevin declared, his voice rising with theatrical indignation, “are nothing more than a desperate attempt to undermine the robust health of this venerable institution. Kosta-Tassion Holdings stands on solid ground. Our estimates for the next fiscal quarter remain exceptionally strong, bolstered by…” As Brevin gestured towards the massive holo-screens flanking the stage, meant to display intricate financial charts, the first sign of disruption rippled through the room. The charts failed to appear, replaced instantly by a sharp, verified video transmission. On the left screen, Olenka Verrill’s face, half-marked with blue surgical ink, her eyes wide with terror, filled the entire display. Her voice, thin and reedy, began to play over the overhead speakers, an unnerving counterpoint to Brevin’s grandstanding. “—he told me to. To pay off Senator Corvus, to… to make sure those zoning permits went through for the Echelon Towers, no matter what it took. The funds came from the shell accounts, and he said if anyone asked, it was *my* discretionary spending. But it wasn’t. He promised to take care of my face, my career… he promised!” A collective gasp swept through the hall. Brevin’s carefully constructed facade shattered. His eyes darted to the screen, then to the teleprompter, which now displayed not his prepared speech, but a single, bold line of text: *Olenka Verrill: State’s Evidence, Morzanto Federal Inquiry 2047-Gamma*. On the right screen, a live counter, stark white against a crimson background, began to tick downwards with alarming speed. It wasn't counting time. It was counting Brevin Kosta’s net worth, in real-time. Billions bled away, digit by digit, an agonizing, open liquidation. Brevin’s mouth worked, but no sound came out. He lunged for the teleprompter, yanking at cables, then spun toward the holo-screens, his movements frantic and uncoordinated. His once-smooth hair was now disheveled, his face contorted in a mask of impotent rage. He tried to block the view of the screens with his body, but they were too large, the confession and the plummeting numbers too starkly visible. Whispers turned into open guffaws. A prominent financier threw his head back and laughed, a booming sound that echoed off the glass walls. Others joined in, mocking him openly. This was the total, televised evisceration of Brevin Kosta’s credibility. Danara watched, her expression unreadable. Beside her, Zaren’s hand found hers, a warm, reassuring pressure. The intimacy was fleeting, overshadowed by the brutal efficiency of their plan unfolding below. Timo had outdone himself. Brevin, defeated, stumbled back, his eyes scanning the room, wide and manic. He saw the mirth, the derision, the gleeful schadenfreude on every face. His gaze, wild and desperate, swept upwards, past the cameras, past the gantry, until they locked onto the private viewing box where Danara and Zaren stood, silhouetted against the filtered light. A flicker of recognition, then a surge of pure, unadulterated hatred twisted his features. His hand disappeared inside his expensive jacket. A glint of polished chrome caught the light. He pulled out a compact, heavily modified firearm, its suppressor glinting wickedly. Without hesitation, he leveled it, not at the screens, not at the laughing crowd, but directly at their private box.

The Boardroom Blitz