The press conference was a masterpiece of corporate arrogance. Valerie Simmons stood behind a podium of brushed titanium, the Aether-Marrow logo gleaming in a 30x scale holographic projection behind her. To the world, she was the woman who had saved the district with "Project Aegis-7." To Rumani, sitting on his sofa with a cup of tea, she was a woman who had just walked into a financial slaughterhouse.

  "The pylons," Valerie announced to the flashing cameras, "are the pinnacle of Aether-Marrow’s commitment to urban stability. We moved in secret to protect our intellectual property, but the results speak for themselves."

  Rumani watched her with a calm, hidden intensity. He hadn't just faked the machinery; he had programmed the fake "Aegis-7" logs to include a Registry Maintenance Clause. Under Second Multiverse law, any "emergency infrastructure" used to save a federal district was subject to a 5,000% "Civilian Stability Tax" to cover the environmental displacement. By claiming the pylons, Valerie hadn't just claimed the glory—she had claimed a debt that exceeded Aether-Marrow’s total yearly income.

  An hour later, the cameras were off, and the reality set in. Rumani’s Oversight followed Valerie back to her office, where the celebratory champagne had been replaced by a stack of digital invoices from the Registry.

  "Seventy billion?" Valerie’s voice cracked, her clinical composure finally breaking. "The maintenance tax alone is seventy billion? We don't have that in liquid assets! We don't have that in total assets!"

  She lunged for her secure comm-link, her fingers trembling. She needed a bailout, and she needed it before the Registry froze her accounts.

  Her first call was to the First Multiverse. She bypassed the standard corporate channels and reached out to the G-Force representative in Shanghai, Zhao Sheng. The holographic display flickered to life, showing Zhao’s stern, unimpressed face.

  "Zhao, listen to me," Valerie began, her voice frantic. "Aether-Marrow is the hero of the hour, but the Registry is strangling us with stability taxes. We need a credit bridge. Ten billion, just to start."

  Zhao Sheng didn't even look at the documents she forwarded. "Your 'miracle' is an industrial liability, Valerie. G-Force does not subsidize mechanical ghosts. Do not call this frequency again."

  Click. The line went dead.

  Valerie’s face went pale. She pivoted, dialing a number closer to home—New York City, just down Interstate 95 from Providenc. She called Scott & Associates, the firm run by Vincent Scott.

  The line rang and rang, the rhythmic tone mocking her in the silent office. Vincent Scott didn't even give her the courtesy of a refusal; he simply let the call bleed into the void. He knew a sinking ship when he saw one, and Aether-Marrow was taking on water fast.

  In a state of total desperation, Valerie turned to the one name she had hoped to avoid: Aegis in Tampa. It was a First Multiverse powerhouse, led by Maximilian Thorne, the President and the eleventh brother of Kian Thorne.

  The connection went through. Maximilian’s face appeared, a mask of cold, Thorne-family indifference. He looked at the request for a bailout, then looked Valerie directly in the eye.

  "No."

  The word was like a gunshot. Before Valerie could utter a single plea, the screen went black.

  Back in his apartment, Rumani set his teacup down. He could feel the panic radiating from the Aether-Marrow tower across the city. He had dismantled his greatest corporate enemy without throwing a single punch. By tomorrow, Valerie Simmons would have to start selling off the company's assets just to keep the lights on—and the first assets to go would be the ones Rumani needed to be "lost" forever.

  The headquarters of Aether-Marrow didn't just fall; it imploded with the mathematical precision of a controlled demolition. By Tuesday morning, Valerie Simmons’s "miracle" had become the ultimate industrial poison pill. With the 70-billion-credit stability tax looming and every bridge to the First Multiverse burned, the "Fire Sale" was no longer a possibility—it was a mandate.

  Rumani sat at his desk in the newly reopened branch of the Superman Building. Outside the reinforced windows, 30x scale recovery crews were still scrubbing the streets, but inside, the air was thick with the scent of ozone and expensive cologne. The Registry auditors had already moved on, satisfied by the digital ghost-trail Rumani had woven through the Aether-Marrow servers.

  "Mr. Vikaria."

  Rumani looked up, adjusting his glasses with the practiced, slight tremor of a man still recovering from a "near-death" experience. Mrs. Gable, the branch manager, stood over his desk. She was a woman of iron-pressed blouses and a voice that usually carried the warmth of an arctic shelf.

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  "Mrs. Gable," Rumani stammered, his antsy persona perfectly intact. "Is there... is there a problem with the morning reconciliations?"

  Mrs. Gable didn't answer immediately. She held a digital folder containing the results of the Aether-Marrow liquidation. Because of Rumani's "suggestion" regarding the pylons, the bank had been granted first right of refusal on the company’s local assets. They had just acquired the entire subterranean utility grid of the Fourth District for a fraction of a percent of its value.

  She looked at Rumani, her facial expression locked in its habitual, rigid mask of professional distance. Her tone remained clipped, sharp, and strictly formal, yet her eyes betraying a frantic, overwhelming gratitude that she refused to let reach her lips.

  "Mr. Vikaria," she began, her voice straining against the invisible weight of her thankfulness. "Due to your... astute observation regarding the mechanical reinforcements in the basement, this branch has not only survived but has secured a fiscal position that will ensure our stability for the next century. Your 'instincts' have saved more than just our lives. They have saved this institution."

  She paused, her jaw tightening as she fought to keep her composure. "The Board has authorized a significant promotion. But I suspect you will tell me you were simply doing your job."

  Rumani offered a modest, almost shy smile. He leaned back slightly, the sunlight catching his glasses so that his eyes were momentarily obscured.

  "I don't think of it as a job, Mrs. Gable," Rumani said softly, his voice losing its jitter for a fleeting, terrifying second. "I’ve always felt that there is a right and a wrong in this universe, and that distinction isn't hard to make. You don't help people for the reward. You help them because it’s the only thing worth doing."

  The temperature in the office seemed to plummet. A sudden, localized chill swept through the room, raising the hair on Mrs. Gable’s arms. For a heartbeat, the modest bank teller sitting across from her didn't look like a survivor. He looked like the axis upon which the world turned—steady, immovable, and impossibly ancient.

  Mrs. Gable felt a shiver run down her spine that had nothing to do with the air conditioning. She opened her mouth to speak, to perhaps finally break her mask and thank him as a human being, but the moment broke. Rumani shifted, fumbled with a stack of deposit slips, and the "antsy" clerk returned.

  "Now, about those Aether-Marrow escrow accounts..." Rumani mumbled, looking back down at his screen.

  Mrs. Gable cleared her throat, her face returning to its frozen state. "Yes. Carry on, Mr. Vikaria."

  She walked away, her heels clicking on the marble floor, never once looking back. She didn't understand the chill, and she didn't understand the man, but she knew the bank—and the city—were under a protection that no ledger could ever account for.

  The heavy brass doors of the bank swung open, admitting a gust of cold air and a tension that immediately silenced the lobby. Sabrina Thorne entered with her usual calculated stride, but she was not alone. Walking beside her, draped in a coat that cost more than most tellers earned in a year, was Shannon Thorne.

  Shannon didn't walk; she sauntered, her eyes darting around the marble lobby with a look of pure, unadulterated disgust. Kian had authorized her to shadow Sabrina for the day—a "learning experience" that felt more like a punishment for everyone else involved.

  "This place smells like desperation and cheap ink," Shannon remarked, her voice carrying easily to the back of the room. She pointed a gloved finger at a young clerk behind the counter. "You. Your tie is crooked. It’s offensive. If you worked for our father, you’d be fired before lunch."

  Sabrina didn't look at Rumani. She didn't look at the vault. She was here on official Registry business, her mind occupied by the logistical nightmare of the Aether-Marrow audit. "Shannon, be quiet. We are here to finalize the structural witness statements."

  But Shannon was already at the next desk. She leaned over a junior analyst, her shadow looming. "Is that a mistake on line forty-two? Or are you just naturally incompetent? You know, I could call my father right now. Kian could have you in a federal cell for the rest of your miserable life for tampering with financial records."

  The analyst went pale, his hands shaking. The threat was absurd—Kian Thorne was a man of the law and would never imprison a clerk over a typo—but the Thorne name carried a weight that paralyzed ordinary citizens.

  Mrs. Gable emerged from her office, her spine as straight as a steel beam. She had just finished her moment of chilling realization with Rumani, and her patience for petulance was non-existent. She marched toward the sisters, her heels echoing like a countdown.

  "Miss Thorne," Mrs. Gable said, addressing Shannon with a tone that would have frozen a volcano. "This is a place of business, not a playground for domestic threats."

  "Do you know who I am?" Shannon sneered, turning her venom on the manager. "I could have this building condemned by sunset."

  "I know exactly who you are," Mrs. Gable replied, her face a mask of iron-clad professionalism. "You are a guest who is currently violating the peace of this institution. You have just threatened a member of my staff with life imprisonment—a gross misuse of your father's reputation that I am certain he would find... distasteful."

  Sabrina sighed, rubbing her temples. "Shannon, stop it."

  "I will not be spoken to by a—"

  "You will be escorted out," Mrs. Gable interrupted, signaling to the two 1x scale security guards near the door. "Now. Before I file a formal complaint with the Registry’s Ethics Committee regarding your conduct. Sabrina, you are welcome to stay for the audit, but your sister is a liability."

  Shannon’s mouth hung open in shock. No one talked to a Thorne like that. But as the guards stepped forward, the reality of the situation—and Mrs. Gable's unwavering glare—settled in. With a huff of indignation and a final, whispered insult about the "peasantry," Shannon turned on her heel and stormed out, the guards trailing her to ensure she reached the sidewalk.

  Sabrina watched her sister leave, a flicker of exhaustion crossing her face before she turned back to Mrs. Gable. "I apologize for her. She lacks... perspective."

  "Perspective is a requirement in this building, Agent Thorne," Mrs. Gable said, her voice finally beginning to thaw, though her posture remained rigid.

  Behind them, at his modest desk, Rumani stayed hunched over his monitor. He didn't look up, his fingers tapping rhythmically on the keyboard, the perfect picture of a man too intimidated by the Thorne family to even acknowledge the drama. Inside, however, he felt a strange sense of pride. Mrs. Gable had defended her "modest" staff with the ferocity of a lioness.