And now here you are in the middle of a disruption so loud it feels biblical.
Then the footsteps come.
Slow. Firm. Unhurried in the way only powerful people can afford to be. The sound travels down the staircase and enters the hallway before the man himself does, and the staff reaction is immediate. Backs straighten. Voices die. Nobody needs to say his name.
Matthew King appears at the top landing like he owns more than the house. Like he owns the air inside it too.
You have only seen him once before, in passing, when he crossed the foyer while talking into a phone and made three executives trailing him look like boys hurrying after a storm. In person, he is somehow larger than the impression of him. Early forties, broad-shouldered, dark-haired with a few threads of silver at the temples, dressed in a navy sweater and gray trousers that still manage to look expensive enough to pay a month of your rent. He is not movie-star handsome in a soft or easy way. He is sharper than that. The kind of face carved by intelligence, sleeplessness, and a life full of decisions nobody else was allowed to make.
