As dusk fell, the setting sun blazed crimson across the sky.
In an opulent villa on the outskirts of Mileage, Yoland sat on a plush sofa, replaying the footage of the Maybach crash for what felt like the hundredth time.
His brow remained furrowed with skepticism.
*Could Sinclair really be dead?*
Something about this felt too smooth, too convenient.
Yet no matter how many times he scrutinized the video, there wasn't the slightest hint of a chance for survival.
That, at least, eased his mind a fraction.
With a decisive click, he shut off the screen and lifted his gaze to his assistant.
"Have you taken care of Sinclair's men?"
The assistant kept his head bowed.
"They're still putting up resistance."
Yoland's expression darkened.
"A measly dozen or so men, and you still haven't finished them off?"
His voice dripped with contempt.
"Are the people you sent complete idiots?!"
The assistant stayed silent, though inwardly, he was already groaning in frustration.
