BROOKS MANSION
The clock on the far wall ticked steadily, its soft rhythm filling the silence of the room. Mr. Brooks sat in his leather armchair, surrounded by tall bookshelves and framed pictures of years past.
The dim light from the desk lamp gave the room a golden glow, highlighting the streaks of silver in his dark hair.
He wore a navy robe over his pressed trousers, the collar slightly open as he leaned back with a report in hand. His scotch sat untouched on the side table, the ice cubes slowly melting.
Soft classical music played from the speaker behind him, blending with the crackle of the fireplace. For once, the house was quiet. Until his phone buzzed.
He glanced at it. Unknown number.
He frowned but picked it up, expecting a late business call.
“Hello,” he said calmly.
