The heavy brass double doors of the New York Stock Exchange swung open at exactly nine o'clock on Monday morning, letting in a bitter rush of cold air and the harsh glare of sunlight onto the trading floor. Hundreds of brokers in custom suits stood shoulder to shoulder around the central trading posts, clutching half-empty paper coffee cups and staring up at the massive, multi-tiered electronic boards hanging from the vaulted ceiling. At the very center of the main display, the emerald-green ticker symbol for Morgan Corporation blinked steadily in the morning light, radiating decades of unshakeable corporate dominance. Opening Price: $142.50 per share. Market capitalization: towering, solid, commanding the absolute top tier of the global index. For two long, silent seconds, the entire floor held its breath, waiting for the customary opening surge of institutional buying from loyal partners.&n

Mr. Rossman-Morgan pushed himself up from the cold stone floor of his balcony, his knees trembling and his custom suit jacket stained with dirt. He wiped his sweaty palms against his trousers, leaving dark, wet smudges on the expensive wool. Below his penthouse, the faint sound of the public crowd laughing and pointing still drifted up through the open glass doors, stinging his ears as salt rubbed into an open wound. He staggered back inside the air-conditioned office, his breathing coming in short, uneven gasps. He had to regain control. He was the founder and chief executive officer of Morgan Corporation. He had weathered recessions, political scandals, and hostile takeovers for four decades. A computerized glitch on public billboards could not destroy a multi-billion-dollar empire unless his executive team allowed it. Morgan wiped his mouth with the back o

The glass doors of the television studio were locked from the outside, but the sound of shouting voices leaked through the thick acoustic paneling like water through a broken dam. Rossman-Morgan stood with bulged eyes behind the fine podium, his fingers clawing into the dark wood as if it were a cliffside in a storm. His suit jacket felt suddenly heavy, soaked through with cold, greasy sweat that dripped down his ribs and stained his linen shirt. Across the room, the primary camera operator locked his machine onto Morgan's face with precision, holding the red recording light steady. Millions of living rooms, corporate boardrooms, and corner pubs across the entire nation were staring directly through that glass lens right at his twitching eye. "Mr. Morgan," the lead anchor hissed from across the stage, leaning forward into her own microphone with a look of pure predatory disgust.<