Jake gripped a bottle of water, his knuckles white as he tilted it back. The water was cold, but it felt like lead in his stomach. He wasn't just pacing; he was stalking the length of his study like a caged animal. Every few seconds, his eyes would dart back to the monitors, hoping—praying—to see that familiar, ethereal glow on the gold chart.
"It's just the stress," he whispered, his voice cracking in the silence of the penthouse. "The migraine. The neural load. It's just a temporary glitch."
But the denial felt thin. Without the eyes, the Zenith felt like a borrowed suit that was three sizes too big. He looked at the balance in his brokerage account—billions of marks—and all he felt was the impending weight of a collapse. If he couldn't see the future, he was just a man with a lot to lose and a target on his back that he couldn't even see.
The panic was a physical thing, clawing at his throat, until a different kind of sensation took over.
