The air in the 88th-floor conference room was so thin it felt like shards of glass in the lungs.
Twelve senior executives of Infinite Group sat paralyzed around the obsidian table. Their eyes were fixed on the man standing by the floor-to-ceiling window. He wore a bespoke charcoal suit, his back as straight as a spear, overlooking the sprawling metropolis below as if it were a city he had already conquered and burned.
This was Ying Zheng, the Chief Operating Officer. In the business world, they called him "The Dragon." To his employees, he was simply "The Tyrant."
"Director Li," Ying Zheng spoke. His voice was low, rhythmic, and carried the ancient resonance of a bronze bell.
"Y-yes, Mr. Ying?" The fat man at the end of the table trembled, his silk tie soaked in cold sweat.
"I asked for a 20% growth in the Northern territories. You gave me 15% and a three-hundred-page excuse."
Ying Zheng turned around. His eyes weren't the eyes of a modern businessman; they were the eyes of a wolf looking at a dying lamb. He picked up an exquisite fountain pen from the table, turning it slowly between his fingers.
"In my... hometown," Ying Zheng whispered, leaning over the table, "incompetence wasn't punished with a pay cut. We used the slow ones as foundation filler for the walls."
"Mr. Ying, this is the 21st century! You can't—"
CRACK.
Ying Zheng didn't shout. He simply slammed the fountain pen into the solid mahogany table. The gold nib shattered, burying itself deep into the wood.
"Security," Ying Zheng said, not even looking at the man. "Escort Mr. Li out. Strip him of his shares. By sunset, I want his name erased from this industry."
As the screaming Director Li was dragged out like a carcass, the remaining executives lowered their heads, terrified. Ying Zheng checked his Patek Philippe. 2:00 PM.
The predator's arrogance vanished in an instant. A flicker of something human—something like fear—crossed his face.
He straightened his tie, wiped a drop of ink from his cuff, and walked toward the unmarked red wood door at the end of the hall.
The Chairman's office had no windows.
It was a tomb of silence, lit only by a single desk lamp and the monotonous, rhythmic hum of a heavy-duty paper shredder.
Ying Zheng stood at the entrance. He didn't dare to step on the plush carpet until he was summoned. The man who had just crushed a millionaire's life with a broken pen was now bowing his head so low his chin touched his chest.
"Chairman," Ying Zheng whispered.
I didn't look up. I was leaning back in my high-back chair, the shadows swallowing my face. In my hand was the weekly performance report—the real one, written in blood and gold.
"You took fifteen minutes to deal with a fly, Ying Zheng," I said. My voice was calm, devoid of any heat. "And you broke a limited-edition Montblanc. That's... inefficient."
Ying Zheng's knees visibly buckled. "I apologize, My Lord. I wanted to ensure the 'cleansing' was absolute."
"Absolute?" I let out a short, dry breath that wasn't quite a laugh. I dropped the report into the shredder. Zzzzzzt. The paper vanished into thin strips. "You've spent too much time in this era. You're starting to enjoy the theater of power. You've forgotten that power is a tool, not a toy."
"I... I would never—"
"Quiet."
The shredder stopped. The silence that followed was heavier than a mountain.
"Your ranking for the month has dropped by one," I said, finally looking up. My eyes met his. I saw the Great Wall, the terracotta armies, and the burning books in his pupils—and I saw them all tremble under my gaze. "Go. Send the woman in."
Ying Zheng bowed again, his forehead almost touching the floor. He backed out of the room, his back drenched in sweat, not daring to turn around until the door clicked shut.
I leaned back into the darkness, listening to the next set of footsteps in the hallway. High heels. Confident. Dangerous.
I picked up a red pen and drew a slow, deliberate line across the next name on my list.
The Dead Shout. I Smile.
"Come in, Cleopatra."