The silver sedan pulled into the sleek, glass-paneled parking lot of the Smith Corporation just a few minutes past 9 a.m. The morning sun glinted off the building's facade, casting sharp, mirrored reflections across the pavement. Henry Browson, dressed immaculately in a charcoal-gray suit, adjusted his tie as he shifted the gear into park. The moment his car came to a smooth halt, he cut the engine and stepped out, his polished shoes clicking against the concrete. He looked up briefly at the towering structure before him—a symbol of corporate prestige and relentless ambition—and drew in a slow, steady breath.
As he walked toward the entrance, the tall glass doors slid open automatically, revealing Sharon, a poised and elegantly dressed woman in her late twenties. Her high ponytail swayed slightly as she stepped forward to greet him. Her red lipstick was immaculately applied, her smile almost too wide to be sincere.
