The silence that followed the final tally was heavier than the humidity of the afternoon. On the terrace of the Highlands Lounge, the digital digits on the screens seemed to hum with an accusatory glow. 37,294.00 VM. In a single hour. It wasn't just a victory; it was a surgical dismantling of an opponent who had spent the last decade convinced he was a master of the craft.
The Marcus Crane sat slumped, his hands resting limply on the edge of the table. The sweat that had been a light sheen earlier was now soaking through his expensive golf shirt. He looked at the screen, then at the Real Marcus, and finally at Leon. His mouth opened, but no sound came out. The realization that he now owed Noah a million marks—and had lost his standing in Leon's inner circle—was a physical weight crushing his chest.
