The faint, almost imperceptible hum of the city’s distant pulse was the only sound permitted to penetrate the soundproofed walls of Frank’s penthouse office. He stood before a panoramic window, the glittering tapestry of the metropolis spread out beneath him like a personal kingdom. A half-empty tumbler of amber liquid sat on the polished mahogany desk, a faint scent of aged scotch lingering in the air. Frank wasn't a man who indulged in theatrics, but he appreciated control, and this view, this silence, offered a profound sense of it.
His phone, a sleek, custom-built device, vibrated softly in his hand. He didn't need to look at the caller ID; he knew who it was. The timing was precise, as it always was with his operations.
He brought the phone to his ear. "Status report," Frank's voice
