Ravyn had been staring at the stock charts for so long that the numbers no longer felt like data, but rather accusations. Ever since Damon authorized the transfer, he had monitored every rise and dip with obsessive focus, tracking percentages the way a surgeon tracks a patient's heartbeat during a high-risk operation.
Technically, he was back in the green. The graphs had turned favorable again, climbing steadily enough to give hope to anyone watching from the outside. But Ravyn was not anyone. He understood margins. He understood targets. And as his eyes traced the figures once more, he knew the truth that refused to soften. He still needed at least ten billion to reach the required mark.
If he had a few more days, perhaps even a week, the natural upward momentum would have carried him there. The projections were promising, the trends aligned, and under ordinary circumstances he would have trusted the math to do its work.
