The castle was older than the wars that had birthed the men gathered within it. Perched atop the jagged cliffs of the Scottish Highlands, with a cold mist curling along its grey stone walls, it had once been a fortress, then a monastery, and now—under Fred’s command—a war room. Reborn, just like him.Sir Malcolm Price. The name now echoed in the halls of parliament, across investment boards, and within the darkest corners of the international web. But here, in this conclave of criminals, spies, and ex-generals, he shed even that mask.Here, he was Fred once more.Inside the great dining hall, every seat had been handpicked.At the head of the long oaken table sat Fred, his silver hair slicked back, his lips curled in permanent disdain. To his left: Oleg Baskov, the Russian ex-financier turned arms dealer, whose drones had scorched half of Moldova. Next to him, Teresa León, Spanish AI magnate and silent broker of border manipulation programs.There were fifteen in all—cartel lords, rog