Eagle View (MXM)

It was too early for this much panic. But inside Avenix Tower, panic had arrived with the sunrise.

It began in whispers at the front desk, half-heard fragments of a press leak, and spread like fire across the twenty-third floor. By 9:00 a.m., it was everywhere. Not in screams, not yet, but in that corporate choreography that only looked composed from the outside. Behind the glass and steel, people were unraveling.

The air was thick. Summer had arrived in Valmont without grace, creeping through the cracks of the tower with sweat-lined fingers. The ventilation system, built for show, not power, struggled to keep up. Beneath designer suits, shirtbacks clung to skin. Silk blouses wilted. Hairlines glistened under fluorescent lights.

In the central command corridor, assistants moved like blood cells, fast, precise, nervous. Calls came in every thirty seconds. One phone rang, then another, then six more. The rhythm of crisis. The receptionist was pale. A junior analyst tried not to cry in the restroom.

“Thailand’s market is gone. Confirmed.”

“What do you mean they’re pulling the distribution license?”

“I don’t care who leaked it, contain it.”

Monitors flared red across desks. Open laptops blinked with incomplete forecasts. The ticker across the big wall screen in the lobby updated every minute, a steady, merciless descent.

AVENIX SEES 14% DROP AFTER PRODUCT RECALL.NEW REPORTS SUGGEST INTERNAL NEGLIGENCE.WHERE IS DAVID VALE?

In the boardroom, glass-encased, temperature-controlled, and yet somehow stifling, seven executives sat in a staggered silence, trying not to look like they were sweating. But the heat didn’t care about status. The floor-to-ceiling windows trapped the sun. No one dared remove their jackets.

Stefan Vale stood apart from them, facing the window, his back to the room. His posture was perfect. His silence was louder than the news anchors murmuring from the screen behind him. A loop of catastrophe: journalists in makeup talking about oversight, about lawsuits, about corporate rot. A replay of the serum scandal, frames slowed down, zoomed in, frozen.

The CEO’s chair remained empty.

David was still missing.

Someone passed a bottle of water across the table. The CFO tapped her stylus against her tablet, then stopped. No one asked what they were waiting for. They already knew.

Avenix wasn’t just bleeding. It was hemorrhaging. Quietly. Elegantly.

For now.

Legal Affairs DivisionThe lighting here was cooler, softer. Intentional. It gave the illusion of control.

But the illusion was fraying.

Stacks of documents sat untouched across desks, open case files flagged in red. A junior counsel was pacing between cubicles, phone wedged between shoulder and cheek, her voice tight with urgency. “No, we can’t admit liability. Not yet. We haven’t cleared the chain of custody on batch 207.”

Farther in, past the glass partitions and the sanitized scent of coffee and toner, Charlie Stones sat in his office with the door half-closed. Not shut, never locked. Just enough to signal not now without discouraging the truly desperate.

His desk was spotless, organized to the point of discomfort. Neutral palette. A single pen resting precisely parallel to his legal pad. Outside his window, Legal buzzed in hushed murmurs and jittery movements. But Charlie remained still.

He was reading the leaked internal memo for the fourth time. The one that shouldn’t have gotten out. The one with David Vale’s initials at the bottom and a timeline that contradicted every official statement made so far.

He tapped a single finger against the armrest.

Then deleted the message.

Someone knocked, three quick raps, breathless.

“Come in,” Charlie said without looking up.

It was Monica from PR, visibly flustered. Her heels were too loud on the floor, her blouse sticking at the collar. “They’re saying the serum was never approved for Thailand. At least not officially.”

Charlie glanced at her. “It was.”

“Then why is the Health Bureau claiming otherwise?”

“Because they can.” He closed the file in front of him. “And because someone gave them a reason to.”

She hesitated. “Are we… Are we pulling out of Asia?”

“No,” he said, standing. “We’re preparing to fight for it.”

He slipped on his blazer, calm as ever, and smoothed the cuff with a flick of his wrist. “Tell Marceau to finalize the statement draft. And stop chasing David Vale. That’s a black hole we don’t have time to scream into.”

“Right.”

“Oh, and Monica, ” he added as she turned to leave, “make sure Stefan knows. If he brings in someone new… we need to see the terms before they’re locked.”

She paused, nodded, and left.

Charlie exhaled quietly through his nose. His office, pristine as it was, felt smaller now. The walls closing in. Or maybe the net. He reached for the remote and muted the news loop on the small TV across the room.

He already knew how this story was being told.

What mattered now was who would get to rewrite it.

Back in the boardroom, the tension had settled into something heavier.Not chaos, something colder. The kind of stillness that came before collapse.

Stefan hadn’t moved from the window. The city stretched beneath him, oblivious to the tremble in its tallest tower. Behind him, the screen cycled through the latest headlines. None of them are good.

Then, the doors opened.

Two figures walked in. Not rushed, deliberate. Suits tailored within an inch of power, calm like they’d already decided how this meeting would end.

Adrian Vale was the first to speak.

“Apologies for the short notice,” he said, voice smooth, untouched by the heat. “But given the state of things, I assumed you wouldn’t mind.”

Stefan turned, slow and sharp. “This is a private session.”

Adrian offered a thin, practiced smile. “Not anymore.”

He nodded to the woman beside him, Monique McDonell, head of crisis management. Known across Valmont’s corporate sphere as the woman you called when optics weren’t enough. She held a digital tablet against her chest like a shield and scanned the room with brisk efficiency.

“Let’s not waste time,” Adrian continued, folding his hands in front of him. “Avenix is bleeding. Your team has no narrative control. The product recall is in week three and we’re losing five regional markets. David is uncontactable. And as of this morning, the Health Bureau is requesting a formal audit.”

A pause. Just long enough for the words to settle like sediment.

“This can’t go on,” Adrian said. “Stefan, it’s time.”

Stefan’s jaw tightened. “Time for what?”

“For you to take your son out of the equation.”

No one breathed. The only sound was the low hum of the monitor behind them, still flashing red.

“He’s no longer a liability,” Monique added, stepping forward. “He’s an anchor. And the longer you let this drag, the more this becomes your failure instead of his.”

“We have a plan, ”

“No,” she interrupted, polite but firm. “You have a mess. And you need someone who can walk into this storm and get the job done.”

“And who would that be?” Stefan asked coldly. “You?”

Adrian smiled wider now. “We don’t need me. We need a cleaner. Someone invisible, unaffiliated, unafraid to cut deep.”

He let the pause hang.

“You need a fixer.”

Stefan’s eyes narrowed. The word had weight. It meant something different in rooms like this.

“You’re suggesting an outsider?” he asked.

“I’m not suggesting. I’m insisting,” Adrian said, calm as ever. “If you want to save what’s left of this company, you need someone ruthless. Someone surgical.”

He looked around the room, to the hesitant faces, the sweat, the silence, the fear.

“David has passed the point of damage control. You need containment.”

Then, a beat.

“And you need it now.”

Stefan didn’t speak at first.

He let the silence drag, let it steep. The room waited, uncertain whether to breathe or brace. Adrian stood with the calm of a man who thought he’d already won.

But then Stefan turned.

“Out,” he said.

Adrian blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” Stefan’s voice was cold now, stripped of formality. “This is still my boardroom. And until that changes, I decide who sits at the table.”

Adrian’s smile thinned. Monique didn’t move.

“This isn’t personal,” Adrian said evenly.

“No,” Stefan replied. “It’s strategic. And I don’t trust your strategy.”

A flick of his wrist toward the door.

“Take it outside.”

For a moment, Adrian stood perfectly still. Then, with a quiet exhale and a glance to Monique, he stepped back. “We’ll talk soon,” he said, more promise than threat.

The doors shut behind them with a sound that echoed.

Stefan didn’t speak again until the room had cleared. He turned to the executive assistant by the door. “Get me Angela Serrin. And Charlie Stones. Privately.”

Ten minutes later, a smaller conference room. No news loop. No interruptions. Just three people and the weight of what was left.

Angela Serrin walked in briskly, her blouse pressed, her expression sharp despite the heat. She was crisis management at its best, measured, surgical, unshaken by the smell of blood. Charlie arrived behind her, sleeves rolled slightly, collar open, tablet in hand. Always quiet. Always watching.

Stefan leaned against the table, no longer performing authority, just carrying it like a weight.

“Adrian wants David out,” he said. “Formally. Publicly.”

Angela gave a small nod. “Expected.”

“He came in with Monique and tried to push a third-party fixer. Someone from his circle, no doubt.”

“That’s dangerous,” Charlie said softly.

“Exactly.” Stefan pushed away from the table. “The shareholders are skittish. They’ll start selling. And when they do, Adrian’s ready to swoop in. If I take his suggestion, I hand him a knife and beg him to aim.”

Angela sat down, tapping her tablet awake. “We’ve anticipated this. I’ve already begun evaluating contingency hires. We kept it internal. Quiet.”

“Anyone viable?” Stefan asked.

“A few.” Angela swiped, pulled up a folder. “But one stood out. I’d like you to review his profile, just… be mindful when you look at the scope.”

She passed the tablet to Stefan.

He took it, skimming.

And then: “No way.”

Angela raised a brow.

“This guy’s been fixing boutique firms and busted-up SMEs. He hasn’t touched anything remotely close to our size. Avenix is a leviathan, he’s a kayak in open waters.”

Charlie, still leaning near the window, spoke up.

“True. But he’s not just a fixer. Drew Hunnam is a serial entrepreneur. Built and sold three companies by thirty. He knows how to scale. And more importantly, he knows how to strip things down fast.”

Stefan didn’t look convinced.

Charlie stepped forward. “You don’t need a legacy CEO. You need someone who’s used to fire. Someone who doesn’t care about saving face because he’s never had to wear one.”

Angela added, “He’s not flashy. He’s not connected. Which means he’s not Adrian’s.”

Stefan stared at the profile again, slower this time. A photo. A list of crisis projects. One headline from a failed biotech relaunch he’d managed to turn profitable in seven months.

And beneath it all, a strange quietness to the man. As if his silence was part of the strategy.

“Drew Hunnam,” Stefan said aloud, still unsure.

Angela met his eyes. “At this point, what we need is not pedigree. We need precision.”

The coffee had gone cold.

I didn’t mind. It wasn’t about the coffee. It was a habit. Something to hold while the day came into focus. The sun was already crawling across the windowpane, slicing through the linen curtain in strips of gold. I hadn’t turned on the lights yet. I rarely did before noon.

My apartment sat quiet over Rue de Matisse, third floor, barely lived in. Everything white and dark wood. One painting, no photos. The kind of place that didn’t ask questions and didn’t care for answers.

My phone was on the counter, screen dark. I watched it for a moment, then turned back to the view. Valmont’s skyline shimmered like the shell of something much prettier than it was. That was always the trick with this city. Dress the beast in cashmere, no one asks where the blood went.

I’d already seen the headlines. Serum recall. Plummeting shares. David Vale’s name buried under three layers of PR dust and still shining like a rusted blade.

I walked barefoot across the floor, picked up the phone just as it began to ring.

Unknown number. Of course.

I answered.

“Drew Hunnam,” I said.

There was a pause. Then a voice, clipped, professional.

“This is Angela Serrin. I’m calling on behalf of Stefan Vale. We’d like to arrange a meeting. Today, if possible.”

No small talk. Good.

I took a slow breath. The summer air had already turned heavy, pressing through the open window like a hand on the chest.

“What time?”

“Eleven. Avenix Tower.”

I glanced at the wall clock. Two hours. Enough time to make a decision.

“I’ll be there.”

She hung up first.

I stood there a moment longer, watching the street below. A kid on a scooter weaved through the crowd. A woman lit a cigarette with one hand, balancing a coffee in the other. Everyone was moving, always moving, never seeing what was about to hit them.

I finished the cold coffee. Set the mug down.

Then I went to get dressed.

Avenix Tower rose like a monolith against the Valmont sky, all glass and ego.

Most people walked faster the closer they got to it. Some slowed down. Drew Hunnam parked right in front.

The car was a deep graphite Bentley Continental, matte finish, quiet engine. It didn’t roar or purr, it glided. Drew stepped out without looking at the valet, offering the keys with a flick of his wrist. The man nodded, aware enough to know this wasn’t the kind of client who needed thanking.

Drew adjusted the sleeve of his linen jacket. The suit was a soft ash gray, custom-tailored to move like water but structured where it mattered. No tie. The shirt was jet black, collar open, the top button casually undone. His trousers were sharply pressed, cut clean and straight, falling just right over his polished leather shoes, subtle, handmade, no visible brand. On his wrist, a slim silver watch. Not flashy. Just precise.

The morning heat pressed down on the city, but Drew didn’t break a sweat.

He stepped through the revolving doors, into air conditioning and tension. The lobby was all marble and reflections, polished within an inch of its soul. People moved like a tide, fast, coordinated, each one pretending not to look as they caught sight of him. They didn’t know who he was, but they knew enough to know he mattered.

The receptionist looked up. She froze for half a second, then stood.

“Mr. Hunnam?”

He nodded once.

“Mr. Vale is expecting you. Twenty-third floor. The executive lift is just to your right.”

“Thank you.”

He took the elevator alone. No music. Just the soft hush of motion and the faint hum of rising.

His reflection in the mirrored panel was calm. Clean lines, clean face. No jewelry. No expression.

The doors opened to a quieter floor.

Carpeted, colder. The kind of silence that suggested power. And fear.

Charlie Stones was already there, waiting by the glass corridor. Pale beige shirt, collar fastened. Calm eyes behind gold-rimmed glasses. Drew had read enough to know who he was. Smart placement. They were feeling him out.

Charlie didn’t offer a handshake.

“Mr. Hunnam. This way.”

Drew followed without a word.

He could already smell the tension behind the boardroom door. Stale coffee. Sweat beneath perfume. Desperation masked in cologne.

He adjusted his sleeve.

Time to cut.

The door opened without ceremony.

Drew stepped in, his pace even, the rhythm of someone who didn’t need to prove he belonged. The room was already full, seven executives seated, each at varying stages of discomfort. Sweat hidden under luxury fabric. Bottled water half-drunk. Tablets dimmed but ready to be tapped the second someone faltered.

At the head of the table, Stefan Vale stood.

Their eyes met.

Drew offered the barest nod.

“Mr. Hunnam,” Stefan said, his voice carrying across the room like a gavel. “Thank you for coming on such short notice.”

Drew took the seat prepared for him, not at the head, not at the foot, but off-center. Close enough to speak, far enough to observe. His fingers didn’t fidget. His spine didn’t shift. He didn’t ask for introductions.

He already knew who everyone was.

Charlie entered a moment later, carrying a folder that he handed quietly to Stefan before taking a seat at the far end. His gaze flicked once to Drew, unreadable.

Angela spoke first.

“Mr. Hunnam,” she began, crisp and composed, “we’re facing an unprecedented public relations failure, internal instability, and a pending investigation from the Health Bureau. The recall has shaken regional partners and shareholders alike. We’ve lost five key markets in under three weeks.”

Drew listened, his expression neutral. Not disinterested, just... measuring.

“We’re asking,” Stefan said, cutting in, “what you’d need to contain this. To stabilize the company. And to clean house, if necessary.”

A brief pause. All eyes on him.

Drew spoke without raising his voice.

“Authority.”

The word hung there, soft but solid.

“And trust,” he added.

Somewhere to his left, someone exhaled like they didn’t know they were holding their breath.

Angela asked, “What kind of timeline would you need?”

“That depends on how much resistance I’m going to meet.”

Stefan folded his hands. “You’ll have what you need. But there will be politics. Avenix isn’t a company that moves quietly. There are people waiting for you to fail.”

“I don’t plan to give them the chance.”

He said it calmly, without arrogance. Just a fact.

Drew leaned back slightly, scanning the table. Not for reactions, but for weakness.

He wasn’t here to join them. He was here to fix what they couldn’t.

And if he had to break a few of them along the way, so be it.