The convention was today.

  In the predawn silence of the control room, Reed sat alone, bathed in the cold glow of monitors flickering with security feeds and system diagnostics. A single desk lamp cast a tight circle of light over the sprawling map of photographs, notes, and diagrams pinned across the wall. Lines of red string stitched connections between faces, places, and motives—a spider’s web spun by Barry Cox.

  At the center of it all, pinned like the heart of the labyrinth, was a single photograph: Barry Cox. His face stared back at Reed, frozen in time. There to remind Reed of his motivation for all he is doing.

  Reed leaned back in his chair, his eyes drifting over the map. The operation he and his team had built reminded him of a backlight in photography—a single, precise source of illumination positioned behind the subject. When done right, it created clarity, sharpness, and focus. But the smallest misstep—a light angled just slightly wrong, a shadow cast where it shouldn’t be—and the entire image was ruined.

  This operation was their backlight. Every piece, every player, every second had to align perfectly, or the truth they were trying to expose would remain buried in darkness.

  He leaned forward again, scanning the plan laid out before him. Every access point, every device, every contingency—checked, double-checked, and then checked again. There was no room for improvisation now. Timing was everything.

  The difference between success and failure wasn’t hours anymore—it was seconds.

  Reed’s gaze settled on the stack of cryptic messages scattered across the desk: Look closer, Reed. You’re in the frame. Move only in the light. 2 Corinthians 6:14B. Each phrase sat heavy in his mind, their meaning still elusive, their timing too precise to be coincidence.

  Were they guidance or manipulation? Warnings or something else entirely?

  The thought gnawed at him as he glanced at his watch. Fifteen hours. That’s all that separated them from either victory or catastrophe.

  In fifteen hours, Barry would step onto that stage, lights flaring, music swelling, the world watching. And in those same fifteen hours, Reed would have to pull every string, execute every maneuver, and pray that nothing—nothing—was out of place.

  In fifteen hours, the world would know the truth.

  Or it would know nothing at all.

  Reed pored over the intricate web of evidence, each clue a fragment of a larger, elusive puzzle. The relentless pressure of the past few days bore down on him, a heavy reminder that even a few stolen hours of sleep were desperately needed. With time slowly shifting into an ally, he resolved to slip away to his hotel—a quiet haven where he could sharpen his focus and brace himself for the inevitable storm ahead.

  Several hours later, across the city another web was being woven. One of contingencies, of backup plans, of carefully constructed lies. While Reed worked to expose the truth, Barry Cox was ensuring that truth would never see the light of day.

  Barry’s private suite exuded quiet opulence—a far cry from the spectacle of the SYNC convention floor. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the neon sprawl of Las Vegas, the city that never slept was fully coming to life. The curtains were partially drawn, casting angular shadows across the plush carpet and polished mahogany conference table.

  Five figures sat around the table, each one handpicked, trusted, and loyal—at least as far as Barry believed loyalty could stretch. Seth Gauthier, Barry’s second-in-command, occupied the seat closest to him, his expression sharp and attentive, every muscle poised like a coiled spring. The others—field operatives, logistics specialists—watched Barry with varying degrees of wariness.

  And then there was Dovere, Antonio Dovere.

  He sat slightly back from the table, his silhouette draped in shadows despite the soft overhead light. His custom-made charcoal suit carried an effortless elegance, every line precise, every fold intentional. Dark hair, slicked back with an almost mirror-like shine, framed a face carved from marble—sharp jaw, straight nose, and eyes so deep-set they seemed to pull the light inward. A faint scar traced along his cheekbone, nearly disappearing into the creases of a subtle, knowing smile. His hands, gloved in supple black leather, rested lightly on the edge of the table, fingertips barely touching the polished surface.

  Dovere exuded a stillness that carried weight—a presence that made the air feel thinner, the shadows deeper. He said nothing, but his silence spoke volumes, pressing against the room like an unspoken threat.

  Barry stood at the head of the table, sleeves rolled up, a tumbler of expensive whiskey untouched in front of him. His posture was relaxed, confident, yet his sharp eyes scanned the faces before him with the precision of a stalker sizing up its prey.

  “Gentlemen,” Barry began, his voice smooth but carrying an edge, “SYNC isn’t just another event. It’s the event. For me, for us, and for PPI as a whole. Tonight, when I take that stage, the world will see not just a leader, but the leader. A visionary. A king.”

  The men exchanged brief glances. Seth remained stone-faced; his focus locked on Barry.

  “This keynote isn’t just about PPI’s future,” Barry continued, pacing slightly. “It’s about my future. Everything we’ve built—all the groundwork, all the smoke and mirrors—it culminates in this one moment. And when the final words leave my mouth, no one will question who holds the strings. No one will question where the light shines brightest.”

  Barry stopped pacing and placed both hands on the table, leaning in slightly. His voice dropped, quieter but colder. “But kings are only kings until the rebellion arrives, aren’t they?”

  No one spoke. The silence hung heavy, weighted and ear piercing.

  “That’s why we have contingencies,” Barry said, straightening up. “If something—anything—goes wrong tonight, we’ll pivot. I’ve constructed a narrative, an ironclad narrative that transforms me from the architect of this empire… into its savior.”

  He gestured to Seth, who slid a slim tablet across the table. The screen flickered to life, showing a prepared media presentation, graphics already polished, key phrases bold and attention-grabbing.

  Barry continued; his voice steady. “If an attack happens, if an exposure threatens us—this narrative goes live. The presentation transforms. I’ll stand on that stage and deliver not a keynote, but a revelation. The story will change, and the world will see me as the man who exposed a deep, festering conspiracy within PPI.”

  The tablet displayed fabricated screenshots—emails, transaction logs, out-of-context surveillance photos—all painted with a manipulative brush. The names attached to them belonged to high-ranking members of PPI: rivals, skeptics, and even a few key allies Barry could afford to sacrifice.

  Dovere spoke up, his voice measured. “You’ll be the hero. The whistleblower who tore down a corrupt faction within your own empire.”

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  “Exactly,” Barry said, flashing a sneaky smile. “By the time the dust settles, those who oppose me will be gone, the loyal will be rewarded, and the world will beg me to rebuild PPI in my image.”

  One of the operatives cleared his throat cautiously. “And… what about Sawyer? He’s still in play.”

  Barry’s smile faded. “Sawyer is a loose thread. He thinks he’s in control, but he’s walking exactly where I want him to walk. If he surfaces tonight, he’ll fit perfectly into the final act—whether he realizes it or not. If he interferes, he becomes part of the conspiracy I’ll expose. If he runs… well, let’s just say I have contingencies for that, too.”

  The operatives nodded, satisfied—or at least quieted.

  Barry’s gaze swept the room once more. “Each of you has a role to play tonight. Seth, you’ll handle any unforeseen disruptions backstage. Dovere, your team will monitor the floor—eyes open for Sawyer, eyes on anyone who doesn’t belong. The rest of you… stay ready. If I give the signal, we pivot to the secondary plan without hesitation.”

  He stepped back from the table, his voice growing quieter but heavier with meaning. “This isn’t just business. This is legacy. My legacy. And if anyone threatens that—anyone—I want them erased before the applause even starts.”

  The men nodded, a ripple of agreement passing through the group. Seth closed the tablet with a decisive snap, his expression unreadable.

  Barry turned away from the table, walking toward the window. The sprawling lights of Las Vegas reflected faintly in the glass, twin images of the city stretching into infinity.

  “Tonight,” Barry said softly, almost to himself, “they’ll see the light. And they’ll know whose hand holds it.”

  Barry turned back towards his operatives, his sharp silhouette framed against the glow of the Vegas skyline. His voice carried a dangerous calm, each word deliberate.

  “If this backup plan goes into effect, Reed, Kessler and a bunch more will become the faces of betrayal—with Reed being the face of a rogue faction within PPI.” Barry’s smile was cold, calculated. “They may have slipped through our fingers in Vienna, but tonight, they’ll have nowhere to hide.”

  He took a step closer to the operatives gathered before him, his eyes locking onto each of them in turn. “If I’m the King, they burn. If something goes wrong, they burn. Either way... we win.”

  The operatives exchanged uneasy glances. The plan was audacious, even by Barry’s standards. But Barry didn’t tolerate doubt.

  “Everything is in place,” he said, his voice lowering to a razor-edged whisper. “The narrative, the contingencies, the failsafes—it’s all been accounted for. By the time the dust settles, every eye will be on me.”

  One of the operatives hesitated, their voice barely above a murmur. “Sir, with respect, it’s… a complex execution. A lot of moving parts.”

  Barry’s gaze snapped to him, silencing the air around him. He took two steps forward, stopping just inches away.

  “Do you doubt me?”

  The operative froze.

  “Do you doubt this?” Barry gestured broadly, his voice rising with a mix of anger and theatrical flair. “Every detail, everything has been accounted for. Nothing can stop what’s coming.”

  Silence hung heavy in the suite.

  Barry took a step back, straightening his jacket as he exhaled slowly. His smile returned—a thin blade of confidence slicing through the tension.

  “Just a few more hours,” he said softly. “And then, it’s done.”

  The operatives nodded, any remaining hesitance buried under the weight of Barry’s dominance.

  Barry reached into his pocket and retrieved a small, unmarked thumb drive. Its matte surface gleamed faintly under the suite’s overhead lights as he held it between his fingers, turning it slowly, deliberately.

  “This,” Barry said, his voice dropping into a low, measured tone, “is our failsafe. Should anything—anything—go wrong tonight, this little piece of plastic will ensure our story remains intact.”

  He crossed the room, the quiet horns of the city outside barely audible through the thick glass windows. The shadowy figure, Dovere, stepped forward from the edge of the light. His presence was a quiet storm, an unspoken force in the room.

  Barry extended the drive toward him. Dovere took it without hesitation, slipping it into the pocket of his sleek black jacket.

  “Stay near a terminal with a secure internet connection,” Barry instructed, his words sharp and clipped. “If I give the signal—or if things unravel beyond repair—you plug it in. One click. That’s all it takes. The drive will connect to PPI’s servers and initiate the failsafe protocol.”

  Barry’s voice softened slightly, but the cold certainty remained. “We’ll walk away untouched. Heroes. Untarnished by the chaos we left behind.”

  For a moment, no one spoke. The weight of the thumb drive in Dovere’s pocket felt heavier than it should have. The operatives exchanged quick, sidelong glances, but no one dared question Barry’s command.

  “Understood?” Barry asked, though it wasn’t a question—it was a warning.

  Dovere nodded once. “Understood.”

  Barry smiled, his confidence impenetrable. “Good. Now, let’s make history.”

  The operatives began to disperse, leaving Dovere standing in the shadows, thumb drive secure in his jacket, while Barry turned back to the massive floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the glittering Las Vegas skyline.

  But then his phone buzzed.

  Barry glanced at the screen, his smile faltering. The message was simple, yet it hit with the precision of a sniper’s bullet:

  “The light reveals all, Architect. Even the cracks.”

  For a brief moment, Barry’s mask slipped. His grip on the phone tightened, and his sharp eyes scanned the empty suite as if the sender might be lurking in the shadows. The words gnawed at him—light reveals cracks. Was this a bluff? A warning? A taunt?

  His paranoia flared, but his pride smothered it. No one knew his plan. No one could touch him.

  With a sharp exhale, Barry locked his phone and shoved it into his pocket. “Bluff,” he muttered under his breath. “It’s just noise.”

  But it wasn’t just noise—not to Barry. The message clung to the edges of his mind like a stain he couldn’t scrub away.

  He turned sharply back to Dovere, his voice cutting through the heavy silence. “Increase surveillance on every angle of the convention. Every booth, every crew member, every backstage pass—I want eyes on everything and everyone. No anomalies. No surprises.”

  Dovere nodded again and slipped out the door, disappearing into the shadows of the hallway.

  Alone again, Barry straightened his suit and stared out at the skyline. The city sparkled below him, but his reflection in the glass stared back—sharp, shadowed, and subtly distorted.

  He pulled out his phone, his fingers moving with controlled urgency as he typed a message to Seth: “Get in here now. I need you to execute a reserve plan—immediately.”

  Time was closing in. The curtain was about to rise.

  And cracks or no cracks, Barry intended to hold the spotlight until the final bow.

  A few hours later, the sun was getting low on the horizon, painting the Las Vegas skyline in streaks of molten gold and deep violet. From the rooftop of his hotel, Reed stood with his hands braced on the railing, his gaze fixed on the glittering sprawl below. The city was alive—pulsing, vibrant, unaware of the storm about to break over it.

  The wind howled around him, carrying the distant murmur of traffic and the pulsing rhythm of music from the Strip. In that shifting interplay of neon and shadow, somewhere, Barry was busy orchestrating his elaborate performance—that thought unsettled Reed to his core. If only he could have stolen a few hours of sleep, maybe, just maybe the edge of anxiety would have dulled just a little. Yet, under the circumstances things were what they were, and soon, everything would fall into place, hopefully.

  Footsteps approached from behind. Carter stepped up beside him, his expression tight with worry. He stared out at the same horizon, his voice low. "We're cutting it razor-thin, Reed. I know I said it before, but I’ve got to say it again. If even one thing goes wrong..."

  Reed didn't look away from the view. His voice was steady, his resolve unshakable. "Barry built his empire on shadows and lies. All we have to do is turn on the light."

  The city lights flickered to life below them, an ocean of stars against the encroaching night. Reed pulled out his phone, checking the time. In just a few hours, the convention center would fill with people—tech enthusiasts, industry leaders, press. None of them knowing they were about to witness either the greatest reveal in photography history or its greatest cover-up.

  Carter shifted beside him. "The team's ready. Everyone knows their position."

  Reed nodded, finally turning from the view to face his friend. The same determination he felt was mirrored in Carter's eyes. "Barry thinks he's directing this show," Reed said, his voice hardening. "But he forgot one thing about light."

  "What's that?"

  "Once it's on, you can't control where it shines."

  The clock was ticking. Below them, Las Vegas continued its nightly dance of neon and shadow, oblivious to the forces gathering in its midst.