Victor Sinclair caught the flicker in Ambrose Ward's eyes and understood the play immediately. This wasn't just a lapse in decorum; it was a calculated provocation. Ambrose wanted to sit back and watch the fireworks. He wanted the internal hierarchy of Lakeport Properties to implode right here in the open, forcing these men to drag their skeletons out of the closet and lay them across the conference table. For a Joint Investigation Task Force, there was no better gift than a room full of panicked men eager to tear each other's throats out. It saved the investigators the trouble of digging; the rot would simply bubble to the surface on its own.Although Victor Sinclair felt a brief flash of irritation at having his own line of questioning interrupted, he quickly suppressed it. He recognized the tactical brilliance in Ambrose's move. He shifted his grip, redirecting his hand from a dismissive wave to his teacup, taking a slow, deliberate sip of the lukewarm liquid. He studied the

Ambrose Ward allowed himself a faint, ghost-like smile as he watched the dust settle, but his silence was far from empty. His mind was a frantic chessboard, replaying the last twenty minutes in high-speed loops. On the surface, it had been a simple, ugly brawl—two men losing their tempers over ancient grudges. But Ambrose didn't believe in coincidences, and he certainly didn't believe in spontaneous combustion.It was clear as glass now: Grant Archer and Winston Grant weren't the architects of this chaos. They were merely the demolition crew. Someone had whispered in their ears, sharpened their insecurities, and nudged them into the ring. They had become the "snipe and the clam" of the old proverb, locking themselves in a struggle that left them both exhausted and exposed. Both men had just burned through a significant amount of their political capital in front of the Joint Investigation Task Force. They had "lost face" on a catastrophic scale.But if they were the p

Violet Ross gave a curt, professional nod, her fountain pen scratching across the legal pad as she drew two thick, decisive lines beneath the final notes of the session. The ink was dark, mirroring the gravity of the testimony they had just secured."Is there anything else, Winston?" Ambrose Ward asked, his voice retaining its calm, measured warmth. He watched the man across the table, looking for any lingering shadows of hesitation."No, that's all I have," Winston Grant replied, shaking his head slowly. The adrenaline from the earlier scuffle had completely ebbed away, leaving him looking like a man who had finally put down a crushing weight. "I've spent most of my career buried in blueprints and site inspections. I stayed out of the inner sanctum where the real deals were made. I didn't have the stomach for the entanglements."Ambrose stood up, smoothing the front of his charcoal suit jacket. He reached across the desk, offering his hand with a small, encouraging s

Victor Sinclair's face lit up with a visible, almost predatory satisfaction. He straightened his posture, his chin lifting just a fraction of an inch to emphasize his seniority. For a brief moment, he allowed himself to inhabit the full weight of his Deputy Commissioner rank, casting a paternalistic shadow over the younger man."Young man, a little humility is a fine virtue in this line of work," Victor said, his voice rich with a condescending, practiced warmth. He patted Ambrose on the shoulder—a gesture that was meant to be encouraging but felt more like a brand. "A single setback is nothing to lose sleep over. Remember the old creed: 'Be humble in victory, and undeterred in defeat.' You're still green, Ward. You'll have plenty of time to sharpen your teeth on easier targets.""Quite right, Group Leader. 'Be humble in victory, and undeterred in defeat,'" Ambrose Ward repeated, nodding with a sincerity that was perfectly measured. He let the silence hang for exactl