The command hung in the air, a final, absolute decree that shattered the brittle silence of the room.
"Team leader, take a seat opposite your father. Now that you've arrived, we can begin the meeting."
Rick's legs felt like they were filled with sand. The fine Italian leather of his expensive shoes suddenly seemed cheap and inadequate against the polished mahogany floor. He couldn't move. He was a statue in a gallery of monsters.
All he could do was stare at the man on the opposite side of the table—head still down on his arms, a picture of almost supernatural indifference. Rick's gaze fell on the man's face, even as he remained slumped, and the sight sent a jolt through him he couldn't name.
It wasn't just the shock of seeing someone he recognized so arrogantly poised; it was the nauseating, overwhelming feeling of being a character in a play he hadn't rehearsed for—and failing spectacularly in his first, crucial moment.
The man who had been a punchline the night before was now seated at the same table as the most powerful man in the world. He was a puzzle Rick couldn't solve, a terrifying, illogical variable in a universe he had always believed obeyed clear cause and effect.
How could a taxi driver, a man he had so confidently humiliated, a man who, by all accounts, should be working a shift right now, be here? Why?
The silence stretched, tense and brittle, punctuated only by the faint, high-pitched hum of the climate control. The old man, George, cleared his throat again—a small, impatient sound that cut through the tension like a razor. His voice, when he spoke again, was sharper, the thin veneer of politeness entirely gone.
"Mr. Rick Mason, as I stated earlier, take a seat. I am not a man who likes to repeat himself."
Rick flinched. The words landed like a physical blow. He felt the weight of all the stares in the room, of all that expectant silence. A crushing pressure threatened to buckle his knees. A sudden, hot wave of shame burned worse than any fear. He had been so proud, so arrogant. He had mocked this man in front of his peers, unaware he was already in a room of giants. The gilded cage he had aspired to was not a sanctuary—it was a prison, and he was the clown trapped inside it.
He finally tore his eyes away from the man with his head down and forced himself to look at Vance. The CEO's face was unreadable, a perfect mask of indifference. He wasn't amused. He wasn't angry. He was simply waiting, a silent, powerful presence that made the air feel thin and hard to breathe. Rick understood, in that moment, what his father had meant when he said Vance was a monster—not a monster of the shadows, but a monster of pure, unadulterated efficiency. A man who could make men feel fear without raising his voice. And Rick, with his expensive suit and newly minted title, was just a small piece of meat in this monstrous world.
He moved then, a jerky, awkward motion, and finally took two steps to the empty chair. He didn't sit opposite his father, as instructed, but next to him—close, as if proximity could offer protection from the storm brewing in the room. He didn't dare look at the man with his head down, focusing instead on the gleaming mahogany, on the perfectly aligned pads and pens. The room felt like a chessboard, and Rick had a horrifying sense he was about to discover he was a pawn in a game he didn't even know existed.
Meanwhile, on the other side of the table, George watched the young man finally sit, thin lips pressed into a tight line of disapproval. Rick Mason, freshly minted team leader, was frozen like a schoolboy before a man with his head on a table. George glanced at Melissa, head of legal affairs, and saw his own confusion mirrored in her eyes. They had worked with Vance for years and expected his routine—but a young man sleeping at the table? George, meticulous and procedural, knew Vance kept no hidden family. Who had the audacity to fall asleep in front of the most powerful man in the world? The CEO's ruthless reputation was legendary; a misstep could cost a hand—or worse.
And yet… Vance wasn't angry. He wasn't annoyed. He was smiling. Thin, cold, almost invisible—a predator's smile, terrifying in its subtlety. A single glance told George and Melissa he was fully aware of their thoughts and found them beneath notice. George wanted to yell at the man to wake up, to remind him of the danger—but he couldn't. He didn't know this man's position. He dared not risk it.
The tension broke finally with a tiny, deliberate motion: a shift in the man's shoulders. Slowly, almost theatrically, Vance raised his head—a silent signal that the show could begin.
Vance's piercing blue eyes scanned the room, assessing each face, before landing on the man. A flicker of cold, dry amusement crossed his features. With a sharp gesture, he indicated the man.
"This is the last piece of the puzzle. This man… is Winsten Stone."
Rick's heart stopped. The name struck like a physical blow. Blood drained from his face. His eyes, which had been fixed on the pens, finally lifted to the man's face for the first time since entering the room. It was him—the taxi driver. The same man he had mocked hours ago, now sitting beside the CEO, dressed simply, radiating untouchable power.
Winsten Stone lifted his head from his arms. A man who had slept in a cage, hoping to forget the world, now faced it fully awake. Even in rest, his mind had been haunted—by the ghost in his phone, the AI controlling his life, the crushing weight of reality. He had hoped to avoid this meeting, to avoid the "monsters" in the room. Pretending to sleep was his small rebellion. Now, he was awake.
His eyes, half-closed, projected a perfect mask of boredom and indifference. The man who had embodied poverty and exhaustion the night before now radiated apathy bordering on supernatural. A thousand-yard stare of someone who had seen too much. His slouched, relaxed posture was a complete lack of respect for the man at the head of the table.
Rick couldn't reconcile the two images. The man who needed a yellow taxi outside, and the man sitting beside the most powerful man in the world, napping. His mind splintered. He wanted to scream, to laugh at the cruel irony—but could only sit, silent, a pawn awakening to the game he hadn't known existed.
George, seeing Winston awake and Rick shattered, cleared his throat.
"Now that we are all here, we can begin. Mr. Vance, we have the first-quarter reports. Revenue is up by three percent, and…"
The words streamed past Rick—numbers, projections—but he wasn't listening. His eyes were locked on Winston, the man he had dismissed so effortlessly. In that terrifying moment, Rick glimpsed the depth of a man beyond material games. He understood, briefly, what it felt like to be a ghost, a hollow man who had transcended wealth. A man in a gilded cage, realizing the one thing money couldn't buy him was freedom.