Roman stood alone in the private study.
He pressed the phone to his ear.
His reflection stared back at him in the dark glass of the towering window—a shadow with sharp eyes and a clenched jaw.
"Erase every trace," he said quietly, his voice heavy with iron. "And I want noise—loud, positive noise. Paint her a saint. A warrior. A woman of worth. Make them eat their words."
A brief pause. Then the voice on the other end answered firmly, "Already in motion."
Roman exhaled slowly, the breath hissing from his nose like steam from a sealed valve.
"Track the upload source. Trace it to the bone. I want the name, the motive, the device, the time. And if they used a burner, I want the exact location the moment they clicked send."
Another pause. Then: "Yes, sir."
He ended the call with a flick of his thumb and set the phone down on the desk.
He didn't sigh. He didn't blink. He just stood there, hands clasped behind his back, the light tracing the clean line of his cheekbone.
