The security turnstiles at Croft Enterprises flashed a harsh, unforgiving red. William Croft, the man who had built the modern iteration of this empire, pressed his thumb against the scanner again.
*ACCESS DENIED.*
“It’s not a malfunction, William.”
William looked up toward the mezzanine. Malcolm Fotheringham stood there, flanked by the Board of Directors. He wasn’t wearing his usual unassuming suits; he was dressed in bespoke charcoal wool, looking every inch the king he had claimed to be.
“Open the gate, Malcolm,” William demanded, his voice echoing in the silent lobby.
“I can’t do that,” Malcolm called down, his voice smooth and devoid of empathy. “The Board has voted. Your erratic behavior–the bigamy, the public brawls, the mania–has become a liability. You are compromised.”
Two security guards, men William had personally hired, stepped forward with apologetic expressions. “Mr. Croft, we have to ask you to leave.”
William stared at his brother–his identical twin–and saw the “Nature vs. Nurture” divide clearly for the first time. He had William’s face, but a heart hardened by decades of abandonment.
“You think you can run this company?” William challenged. “It requires a soul, not just a calculator.”
Malcolm smirked, leaning over the railing. “The company requires surgery, brother. I’m just cutting out the rot. Now, go home. Go play house with your son and figure out which wife you want to keep. I have work to do”.
William turned, stripped of his title, his clearance, and his purpose, walking out into the cold New York air as “The Exile”.