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The Oversight man’s phone starts ringing.
Once.
Twice.
Then again.
And again.
A cascade of calls he can’t ignore—
and can’t answer fast enough.
His composure fractures in real time.
Ten years—
gone in ten seconds.
“This isn’t over,” he says.
But it doesn’t sound like a threat anymore.
It sounds like a man trying to hold onto something that’s already slipping.
I step closer.
Slow.
Deliberate.
“For you?” I say quietly.
A beat.
“It is.”
Security moves in.
Not ours.
His.
And not to protect him.
To get him out.
Because whatever is coming next—
he’s no longer in control of it.
He doesn’t argue.
Doesn’t fight.
That’s how I know.
