The taste of victory was…muted. Leo watched on a grainy phone screen as news anchors reported on the resignation of Mr. Stern, citing “ethical violations” and a “need for new leadership.” The carefully planted stories, the anonymous tips, Demarco’s coordinated smear campaign from behind bars – it had all worked flawlessly. Stern, the man who had tried to crush him, was reduced to a disgraced footnote in Wall Street history.

He was sitting in a small, sparsely furnished apartment in Prague, overlooking the Vltava River. The city, with its ancient bridges and cobblestone streets, felt a world away from the concrete canyons of New York. He’d used the chaos surrounding Stern's downfall to quietly liquidate his remaining assets, laundering the money through a series of shell corporations and ending up here, a ghost with a new identity and a fortune.

But the satisfaction he anticipated hadn't materialized. He hadn't jumped for joy, hadn't toasted his success with expensive champagne. Instead, a hollow echo resonated within him. He had won, definitively. He had outsmarted everyone who had ever tried to use him, to control him, to break him. He was free. And yet…