The industrial landscape of Gwenreen City blurred into a streak of neon-smeared grey as the black armored car tore down the highway. The silence inside the vehicle was so heavy it felt pressurized, like the air inside a deep-sea diving bell.
Malcolm Ford was slumped in the back seat, his shoulders trembling with a low, vibrating rage that made the leather upholstery creak. His suit was a ruin of dust and torn silk, his knuckles were white where he gripped the armrest, and his eyes; usually a calculated, sharp amber, were dark with a frantic, cornered light.
Up front, Marcus stole a glance in the rearview mirror, then quickly looked away. He had never seen Malcolm like this. Not after the worst board meetings, not after the Black Cycle in Freenly. Because their private jet's door had been ripped off its hinges by Malcolm's own hands during his fit, they were forced to take the ten-hour drive back to Freenly in a specialized transport vehicle.
