The private dining room at the 'Aurelian', a restaurant known for its prohibitive prices and discreet service, glittered with the soft reflection of crystal and polished mahogany. A long table was laden with untouched expensive plates and half-empty bottles of vintage Bordeaux.

The air was thick with the scent of fine wine, smoked salmon, and self-satisfaction. Congressman Vance, a man whose face was perpetually flushed with power and indignation, raised a heavy glass of amber liquid.

"To an inconvenience swiftly and permanently removed," Vance declared, his voice booming slightly louder than was appropriate for the setting. He was nearing the point of being thoroughly inebriated, his tie slightly askew.

Around the table, the other influential men—including the ancient, hawk-faced Vincent Halbert and the sharp, nervous Prosecutor Carter—cheered, clinking their glasses.

"A beautiful piece of business, Congressman," Carter slurred, taking a large gulp of wine. "Getting the transfer approved, ensuring that $15 million in fraud vanishes along with the evidence... brilliant. The records of those reduced sentences will look like simple paperwork once the subjects are confirmed... deceased."

Vincent Halbert merely smiled, a thin, knowing expression. "Ethan has been a disruptive presence for too long. His father used to believe that he controlled the game, but he forgets that politics moves faster than any business ledger."

"Exactly," Vance agreed, slapping the table hard enough to rattle the silverware. "The boy thought he could use the system against us. He thought his little prison guards could shield him. But Director Brown called me a couple of hours ago, confirming he had smoothly removed Hayes and was receiving the full mandate. Ethan is alone in that block, and the internal clean-up crew knows what needs to be done."

"It's impossible for anything to go wrong now," a plump associate laughed. "His protection is gone, his allies are dead or dying in the state system, and the man holding the keys is on our payroll. Health, wealth, and the eternal silence of Ethan... Blake! Cheers!"

They drank again, clinking glasses, the mood jubilant and careless.

"Congressman, honestly, the precision of this operation—getting Brown appointed, removing Hayes, timing the convoy... it's a masterpiece of political execution," Prosecutor Carter praised, leaning in conspiratorially. "This frees up the entire Justice Department budget for the next election cycle, ensuring your future is virtually unlimited."

"It's not just a victory against the Blake´s, sir," a plump associate added, raising his hands in exaggerated admiration. "It's a clear signal to every single potential rival in the capital that you do not leave loose ends. The upcoming infrastructure bill? It's yours. Completely unopposed."

"Indeed," Vincent Halbert mused, swirling the expensive liquid in his glass. "This kind of efficiency suggests a man ready for a much larger stage, Congressman. A man who understands the necessary brutality of true power."

"To the future of this partnership, then," Vance declared, basking in the praise, his face now a dangerous mixture of wine and arrogance.

They settled into comfortable silence then, the atmosphere thick with greed and self-congratulation, until the doors burst open.

The merriment was abruptly, brutally shattered.

A man in an expensive but ill-fitting suit—clearly the Congressman's personal secretary, Peter—staggered into the room. He wasn't walking; he was running, his posture frantic.

Before he could utter a coherent word, Peter tripped over the massive, polished boot of one of Vance's silent bodyguards posted near the entrance.

WHUMPH!

Peter crashed face-first onto the marble floor. A waiter, entering the room just behind him, lost control of his tray. A thick, creamy soup splattered across Peter's back, followed by a shower of ice and a full glass of deep red Burgundy wine that soaked the front of his shirt.

Peter scrambled back to his knees, ignoring the pain, the wine dripping from his chin, his glasses askew, and pieces of food clinging to his hair.

"Congressman! Congressman!" Peter screamed, his voice high-pitched and panicked, completely drowning out the luxurious silence of the Aurelian.

Congressman Vance, already volatile from the wine, rose from his chair. His face contorted not with alarm, but with incandescent, personal rage at the breach of decorum.

"Silence! You disgusting fool!" Vance roared. He strode over to the hysterical secretary, his shadow eclipsing the man. "Calm yourself! What kind of manners are these? You represent me! You represent a Congressman of the glorious people of the United States! You must act with measure and decorum!"

Vance's hand snapped out like a whip. SMACK!

The sharp sound of the slap cracked across the dining room, echoing the violence of the prison yard they had just been discussing. Peter's head snapped sideways, his glasses flying off to clatter against the wall.

Peter, stunned, tried to scramble back, choking on a sob.

"Get up, you swine! Speak!" Vance demanded, his voice trembling with fury, not waiting for an answer.

The Congressman delivered another violent backhand. SMACK! This time, the force was enough to split the secretary's lip, and a thin trickle of blood ran down his jaw and mixed with the spilled red wine on his suit.

No one at the table moved. Vincent Halbert stared blandly at his plate. Prosecutor Carter took a nervous sip of his drink. They all knew Vance's reputation: irrationality and violence were standard operating procedure for his employees.

"Now, what is so damn important that you—" Vance began, looming over his bleeding secretary.

"Yes, sir! Vance!" Peter yelled, finally scrambling to his feet, trembling.

"Hurry up!" Vance shouted, lifting his hand threateningly again.

Peter instantly flinched and ducked his head, anticipating the third blow. The entire table, seeing the secretary's pathetic cowering, erupted in cruel, drunken laughter. They laughed at the man's misery and terror, none offering an ounce of sympathy or aid.

Peter closed his eyes, his shame giving way to a flicker of cold defiance.

"You had better see this, sir," Peter said, his voice regaining a strange steadiness. He quickly moved past the Congressman toward a nearby dining booth that had a large television screen mounted above it.

With surprising speed, Peter located the remote control, aimed it at the screen, and changed the channel. The restaurant was completely reserved for Vance's party, so no one outside their group saw the humiliating scene or the impending news flash. For a moment, Peter felt a sliver of twisted revenge for the public assault.

The screen, which had been showing a muted sports broadcast, instantly switched to a national news station. A frantic breaking news chyron flashed across the bottom of the screen.

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