In the sleek boardroom of a towering skyscraper, among the polished mahogany table and the ambient hum of discussion, Cal Crawford exuded an air of effortless authority. His tailored suit, a perfect fit to his chiseled frame, spoke volumes of his status as a man of wealth and influence. With a calculated smile, he leaned back in his chair, listening intently to the financial forecasts being presented by his colleagues as they delved into all the intricacies of shareholders and bonds.

But as the figures danced before him, the rhythm of the meeting was abruptly shattered by the arrival of Marcus, Cal's trusted right-hand man and assistant. Marcus approached Cal, purpose in his stride, and Cal's smile fell. Marcus knew meetings were never to be interrupted, except in the most urgent of circumstances. This must be one of those circumstances. His sudden appearance drew a collective hush from the room. Marcus leaned in close, whispering in Cal's ear: "We've got him, boss. In the basement." 

Cal's smile returned, and he gave Marcus an astute nod. "Excuse me gentleman," he smoothly interjected, addressing the room, "Urgent matters call. We will regroup next Thursday." As he stood, he took a few moments to exchange handshakes and pleasantry. He told one of the men, Larry, to visit the reception desk, as Cal had picked up a gift for his granddaughter's birthday. Larry was delighted, clasping a hand on Cal's back, and Cal made his smooth exit from the room with a glittering white smile, leaving them to dismiss themselves.

He and Marcus entered the elevator, and the doors slid closed silently. With a practiced grace, he slipped off his suit jacket, revealing the crisp lines of his dress shirt and vest beneath. The fabric clung to his form like a second skin, accentuating the powerful contours of his physique. As he rolled up his sleeves with deliberate elegance, a subtle shift in atmosphere heralded the unfolding of a darker agenda. 

"Where did you find him?" Cal inquired calmly, cracking his knuckles. It was perhaps his only unattractive habit, other than the occasional cigarette over a shared drink, when social needs demanded it. 

"A seedy bar on the south side. Drunk in the middle of the day. Made getting him here a hell of a lot easier, I'll say that." Marcus seems at ease, perfectly delighted to share the details with his boss. Cal's lips curled into a smirk, his thoughts already turning to the confrontation that awaited them below. 

Arriving at the basement level, Cal stepped out into a realm removed from the polished facade above. The cold embrace of concrete greeted him has he strode purposefully down the dimly lit hallway, his every step a testament to the power he wielded in the shadows. Behind him, Marcus trailed silently, his loyal shadow. 

He entered a room at the end of a long hall, and Cal's gaze fell upon the bound figure before him. The man sat in a chair, blindfolded, with his hands tied behind his back. The room was a simple concrete square, with only one harsh light above them to offer any illumination. With a casual flick of his wrist, he removed the blindfold, revealing the fear-stricken eyes of John, a formerly trusted member of his organization. John was disheveled, his skin slick with sweat, and his eyes moved around the room wildly, squinting against the harsh light. Cal thought he might even cry. How pathetic.

"Hello, John," Cal greeted him, his voice laced with deceptive warmth that belied the gravity of the situation. As he circled the room with predatory grace, he probed. "So, explain it to me. Really, from your perspective. How did we come to be here?" The irony that John was gagged with cloth and wouldn't be telling Cal anything was not lost on him. 

The situation was unfortunate, but necessary. John was a drug-runner, and had been skimming some off the top. That much, Cal had known for years, and had never paid any mind to. Everyone did it. He wasn't ignorant to that reality, and he could tolerate it within certain bounds. But John had crossed a boundary. Cal had undeniable proof that his drugs, marked with his signature, had gotten into a local public school, sold amongst students. It was a miracle that none of them had overdosed, yet. This little detail could not be tolerated. It had taken him a while to investigate the situation, to figure out the chain of events that had led to premium cocaine ending up in the hands of ninth-graders. And it all led back to John, who thought children -- [i]children[/i]! -- could make a nice little addition to his income. 

Cal pulled up a chair, straddling it backwards in front of John. "I don't have any kids, you know," he mused, reaching out and pushing sweat-dripping hair back from John's face -- a tender gesture, filled with poison kindness. "But I want them. Someday. You do have kids, right John? A son? What is he, twelve?" 

John began to scream against his gag, his face twisting from agony to rage. Cal could almost swear he heard the words, "You leave my son alone!" 

Cal dropped the act, his face quickly shifting from vague interest to one of utter disdain. "That's the difference between you and me," he said seriously, looking the man right in the eye. "I don't fuck around when it comes to kids." 

He stood abruptly, turning his back on his captive. "In the head," he said simply to Marcus, a bit apologetically. "I'd do it myself, but don't have time to clean up. Big gala tonight." With that, he left the room, and as he made his way back toward the elevator, his footsteps were suddenly drowned out by the echo of a single gunshot, reverberating through the confines of the basement. Cal didn't look back.