Rain streaked down the tall panes of glass in Silas Rockwell’s corner office, casting blurred reflections of the city that never quite looked back. The storm outside was the only thing louder than the silence inside. He stood near the wide desk of mahogany and iron, fingers tightening around a tumbler of scotch he hadn't sipped. His jaw was clenched so tightly it could’ve cracked bone.
Then the door opened without a knock.
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