The courtyard of Tariq Khyber’s estate was a masterstroke in opulence—a statement of affluence carved from ivory stone and sculpted hedgerows, overlooking the lush emerald fields of Westside of Westwood. Marble fountains whispered a soothing rhythm while peacocks strutted lazily between rosewood benches. Exotic floral scents wafted through the evening air, blending with the subtle notes of aged whiskey and Cuban cigar smoke.At the center of it all, beneath a canopy of glowing amber lanterns, sat a circular stone table set for five. The place settings were immaculate—silver filigree plates, crystal glasses filled with Darkfall Reserve wine (aged 102 years), and hand-carved walnut menus bearing selections from the continent’s most exquisite chefs.Tariq Khyber stood by the head of the table, his dark suit was crisp, his shoes were gleaming like obsidian, and a sapphire pin was resting against his chest—a symbol of Diamond Bank, Westwood’s central and most powerful financial institut

It was just past midnight when the heavy doors of Tariq Khyber’s mansion groaned open. Farouq Khyber stepped into the marble foyer, his coat was wet from the soft drizzle outside. His boots echoed on the tiles as he walked in, carrying a small black case under one arm.Tariq met him halfway across the room, his expression was tight.“You have it?” he asked.Farouq nodded, holding up the case. “All of it. Every encrypted file. System blueprints. Backup security logs. And... code fragments of the Quantum Veil.”Tariq’s eyes sharpened. “No trackers?”“I swept it twice,” Farouq replied. “And I removed the physical tag. They won’t trace this.”They moved into Tariq's private study, where the dim lights made the room feel like a den of secrets. The air smelled of old books and the faint hint of sandalwood incense. On the long oak table at the center, Tariq had already prepared two laptops and a small quantum decoder.He had everything prepared and both Tariq and Farouq were ready for wha

“Tariq speaks truth,” he said bluntly. “And the Bowens are reckless. If they continue tampering with unstable quantum fields, we could face more than market crashes. We could be looking at dimensional instability.”A murmur of alarm swept through the room. Daniel looked around.“I say we move swiftly. We will lend our cybersecurity arm to the investigation and support the asset freeze.”Then came the Velcan representative—Braelyn Velcan, the eldest daughter of Evander Velcan, and heir to the Chrono Surge biotech fortune. She stood in her dark navy coat, her sleeves were covered in metallic weaves that responded to her neural input.“The Veil isn’t just unstable. It interferes with chrono-fields. We’ve seen strange delays, feedback, even short-term time lapses around Bowen installations.” She looked directly at Tariq.“We back your proposal. My father has authorized the use of our legal and surveillance teams. The Bowens played with forces they didn’t understand.”Then Lucian Zypher,

“As of this evening, all Bowen assets held in Diamond Bank are under temporary freeze pending further review.”Behind Eric, Cassandra’s bracelet pulsed a warning. Nathaniel’s own flared bright, then dimmed. The data was aligning. The news headlines were shifting. He knew what this meant.Eric’s voice dropped an octave.“Under whose authority?”Mr. Johnson didn’t answer immediately.He looked at the convoy. At the armed men. At the bracelets.Then back at Eric.“The Financial Security Council,” he said carefully. “Backed by the signatures of five elite family chairs. The investigation into the Quantum Veil and Bowen activities is officially underway.”Rain dripped from the edge of the bank’s marble arch. Thunder rumbled faintly in the distance.Eric took a deep breath. He didn’t speak. Not yet. His eyes searched Mr. Johnson’s face, then the bank behind him. The truth settled in his bones like cold iron.Had they been outplayed?Eric Vaughan Bowen took one step forward, the rain glint

Right in the Bowen cooperations headquarters, the Bowen Tower was quiet.At the very top floor—far above the traffic, the city noise, the politics—Carl Bowen’s private office existed in a world of its own. Glass walls stretched from floor to ceiling, wrapping the room in a breathtaking panorama of Westwood’s neon-drenched skyline. It was evening, and the city shimmered like a river of stars, pulsing with life that felt light-years away.Inside, soft jazz drifted from hidden speakers, a mellow saxophone tracing lazy patterns in the air. Golden light from vintage sconces pooled across the sleek black marble floors and gleamed off the polished mahogany bookshelves. The room smelled faintly of old paper, whiskey, and the lavender oil that Alina Carl Bowen's wife favored.Carl Bowen, with a shirt half-unbuttoned, sat on the edge of his massive obsidian desk, one leg was lazily stretched out, the other bent at the knee. His cufflinks were gone, his sleeves were rolled, his dark tie was