The glowing screen of Julian Thorne’s phone illuminated the dark interior of his Maybach, casting harsh shadows across his clenched jaw. He stared at the PDF attachment, his eyes scanning the stark, black-and-white legal text for the fifth time since he had stormed out of the gallery.

*Vance v. Th

The silence of my hotel suite was a heavy, suffocating blanket. I sat on the edge of the velvet armchair, the city lights of the skyline reflecting off the floor-to-ceiling windows. With slow, agonizing precision, I used my left hand to unclasp the custom silk sling I had worn to the gallery.

I le

The silence in the executive office of Thorne Industries was absolute, save for the frantic, erratic tapping of Julian Thorne’s fingers against his mahogany desk. He stared at the glowing screen of his laptop, his bloodshot eyes scanning medical journals, surgical directories, and experimental nerve