The days of swagger and arrogance are gone. He didn't wear a tie; the collar of his expensive Brioni custom shirt was unbuttoned, two buttons undone, and his meticulously groomed hairstyle was somewhat disheveled. His eyes appeared sunken, filled with menacing red streaks.
In front of him lay an empty Glenfiddich whiskey glass and a half-crumpled pack of cigarettes. He resembled a gambler who had experienced the ups and downs of life in a casino, only to end up losing all his chips, filled with regret and unwillingness.
Matty Singh seemed unusually excited. He still sat in his penthouse study overlooking the nightscape of Los Angeles, but at the moment, he wasn't drinking. Instead, he kept using a pen to make annoying "tap, tap" sounds on the desk.
There was a morbid gleam in his eyes, the kind only lawyers exhibit when they sniff out a high-profile lawsuit. He was like a vulture that smelled blood, waiting to feast on the corpse.
