The television in the cramped Queens apartment was the only source of light. William Croft sat on the floor, watching the broadcast with a hollow feeling in his chest.
On the screen, Alistair Croft stood on the steps of the dismantled Conservatory. Behind him, workers were removing the bronze plaque dedicated to William’s grandfather.
“The Croft Foundation has served its purpose,” Alistair told the reporters, his voice smooth and commanding. “But in this modern era, charity must yield to security. I am announcing the immediate dissolution of our philanthropic wing to reallocate all capital toward our new Defense Technology division.”
“He’s erasing us,” William whispered.
Malcolm, sitting on a folding chair in the corner, scoffed. “He’s not just erasing the legacy, William. He’s liquidating the ‘soft assets’ to fund the Syndicate. Every dollar that used to go to music scholarships is now going to build surveillance drones.”
William watched his father smile for the cameras–the face of a “Returned King” masking a war profiteer. They were watching the family name be twisted into a weapon, and from this fourth-floor walk-up, they were powerless to stop it.