The morning sun cut through the arched windows of the Tribeca penthouse, casting sharp, geometric slabs of white light across the hardwood floor.
Ryan stood by the edge of the massive kitchen island, a mug of black coffee in his hand. The quiet of the loft was absolute, a heavy, insulated silence that belonged exclusively to the untouchable. Down the hall, the master bedroom remained dark, the heavy doors shut, guarding the exhausted, synchronized breathing of the four women asleep in his bed.
He didn't wake them. The physical toll of the last seventy-two hours sat deep in his own joints, a dull, localized ache across his bruised ribs and shoulders. But the Warlord Protocol didn't require sleep. It required momentum.
He pulled his encrypted phone from his pocket. The screen flared, illuminating his bruised knuckles.
[WARLORD PROTOCOL: STANDBY]
[Ceasefire Active: 28 Days, 14 Hours Remaining.]
[Current Liquid Capital: $338,400,000.00]
