Chapter 10 - The Flash of Steel and the Breaking of the Ledger
The emergency backup generator in the basement kicked in three seconds later, bathing the workshop in a harsh, flickering amber glow from the low-wattage safety bulbs along the ceiling.
Director Vance was on his knees near the center of the room, his tailored wool coat stained with sawdust and motor oil.
His two tactical guards were sprawled unconscious near the stairs, their weapons kicked well out of reach by Julian.
Julian stood directly over Vance, his sidearm holstered, his broad shoulders squared and breathing evenly despite the adrenaline surge.
Nora stood a few paces away, her hand still resting on the heavy iron carpenter’s mallet, looking down at the small metal canister that had fallen from Vance’s grip onto the floor.
“Pick it up, Vance,” Julian commanded quietly, his voice carrying the absolute authority of a man who held the fate of empires in his hands.
Vance slowly reached out with trembling fingers, picking up the small silver microfilm canister from the sawdust.
“You don't understand what you’re holding, Julian,” Vance gasped, looking up with a desperate plea in his eyes.
“If the board sees this, they’ll tear your entire organization apart. They’ll execute every loyalist from Boston to Incheon.”
“The board has been feeding on fear and blood debt for fifty years,” Julian replied coldly.
“It’s time someone cleared the ledger.”
Without hesitation, Julian reached down, snatched the canister from Vance’s hand, and tossed it onto the heavy cast-iron bed of the band saw standing against the back wall.
“Nora,” Julian said, looking back at her.
“Finish it.”
Nora didn't hesitate.
She stepped forward, lifting the heavy iron carpenter’s mallet with both hands, channeling every ounce of frustration, every year of self-doubt, every shadow of Evan Mercer’s voice, and every drop of fear she had carried into the woodshop that rainy night in Portland.
She brought the mallet down with a crushing, thunderous blow straight onto the metal canister resting on the band saw bed.
CRACK.
The metal casing shattered under the immense force, splitting the internal microfilm reels into a tangled heap of ruined plastic ribbons and shredded film fragments that spilled out into the sawdust like worthless confetti.
Vance stared at the ruins in absolute horror, his face turning pale.
“You... you just destroyed the only leverage the eastern faction had,” he whispered.
“I just leveled the playing field,” Julian corrected, his eyes cold as ice.
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“Call the board, Vance. Tell them Park Min-woo’s ledger is gone. And tell them if any one of their agents crosses my perimeter again, I won't just destroy their files—I’ll dismantle their boardrooms.”
Vance scrambled backward on his hands and knees, turning and bolting up the basement stairs into the dark hallway, his hurried footsteps fading rapidly into the rainy night outside as he fled into the Maine fog.
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