The crisis began not with a bang, but with a cascading failure of red pixels on the Bloomberg terminals.
At 9:00 AM, a massive data dump hit the dark web. It contained terabytes of sensitive government surveillance contracts and unredacted blueprints for military drones–all proprietary Croft technology.
In the study of the Estate, Alistair Croft paced before the wall of monitors, feigning apoplectic rage.
“They are destroying us!” Alistair shouted, throwing a crystal tumbler against the fireplace. “The stock is down twelve percent in ten minutes! We are bleeding out!”
William stood by the window, watching his father’s performance. It was perfect. Too perfect. Alistair wasn’t panicking; he was executing a demolition. By tanking the stock price, Alistair was devaluing the company enough to justify a “restructuring”–the exact liquidation strategy he had discussed with the Syndicate.
“We need to shut down the servers,” William said, reaching for his phone.
“No,” Alistair commanded, his eyes gleaming with a cold, predatory light. “Let it burn a little longer. I want to see who strikes the match.”