Morning came slowly.
By 08:00, Lieutenant Mane's existence had been erases completely from the world as if was never born.
His security clearance was purged, his biometric signatures were scrubbed from every internal relay, and his official file was stamped with a single, crimson word: Terminated.
In the reality of mafia governance, the consequences did not stop with the traitor. Marrok had already coordinated the 'relocation' of Mane's immediate family—sending them all to meet him in the place where dead people met.
It wasn't cruelty; it was insurance. In their world, treason was a debt that was inherited.
Lucian sat in the primary board room, the blue light of the holographic maps casting shadows across his face. He looked as though he hadn't slept, yet his posture remained as rigid as a blade.
Marrok stood at the console, his voice low as he delivered the morning's intelligence briefing.
