LUKE
Born into the prestigious if not dark-marked Abbot name, I’m bred to be outwardly civil and inwardly ruthless. All business associates are prey you put down or are to be used as gangly puppets attached to your hand. Keep your intentions so cloaked that those around you never feel comfort. If you are going stab, stab well and hard, so there is no hope of resuscitation. Crying is weakness, even at your mother’s funeral.
These rules have led me to this point. I’ve successfully orchestrated a coup, have cut off the knees of the Abbot board, and sewn together two monolith powers that do not belong in the same building. Intel and Abbot. The monstrosity of such a decision, of inviting any so-called socialist values into your house, would have my father spitting into a blackout rage—if the bastard could remember his name.