The trading floor roared like a battlefield—phones screaming, tickers bleeding, men moving like storm fronts. Yet around Serrat there was silence, a bubble of calm cut from marble and shadow. His eyes flickered neon green, digits racing across them like a living ticker.

“Money burns,” he said softly. “Reputation doesn’t. Control a man’s appetite and you control the man. That’s the real market.”

Dane swallowed, the black pen heavy in his hand. On the parchment before him, one line remained clear:

I affirm my obedience.

He thought he had brought nothing to the table. Serrat smiled. “Then how about what’s left?”