CASSIAN
I sat at the head of the conference table, the mahogany surface reflecting the clinical glow of the overhead lights. On paper, I was the victor of the morning. The Durant acquisition was sliding into place like a well-oiled machine, and the investors were practically salivating at the projected margins.
But I wasn't looking at the charts. I was watching Noah.
He sat to my right, a silent, blue-suited specter of efficiency. Usually, I could feel him… his heartbeat, his irritation, the way he shifted when I stood too close. Today, he felt like a void. Every time I addressed him, his responses were clipped and frigid, delivered with a professional hollow that grated on my nerves.
"The revised logistical map, Noah," I said.
"Page four of your briefing packet, Mr. Wolfe," he replied, not even looking up from his tablet.
But then Alex Hendrix spoke.
"I think the port logistics need a second look, Noah. What's your take on the Mediterranean congestion?"
