The little boy screamed so hard the private jet stopped feeling luxurious.

The peace of the summer was shattered on a humid Tuesday in July when federal investigators and local media descended upon the Costello Global Logistics campus like a swarm of locusts.

It wasn't a corporate raid on Silas. It was something much more insidious.

A rival shipping syndicate—desperate to cripple Project Horizon before its federal grants were locked in—had leaked a fabricated dossier to an investigative journalist at the Chicago Tribune, claiming that Costello Logistics was funneling restricted medical technology through unlicensed shell corporations to bypass international trade sanctions.

Within hours, CNN, Bloomberg, and local news vans were parked five deep outside the security gates, flashing red and blue camera lights across the manicured lawns.

Inside the executive boardroom, the atmosphere was a pressure cooker of flashing tablets, ringing landlines, and panicked vice presidents shouting over one another.

"If we don't release a full public statement denying the allegations within the hour, our stock will drop twenty points by the closing bell!" shouted Arthur Vance, the senior vice president of public relations, pacing back and forth across the mahogany floor. "The federal oversight committee is already demanding an emergency audit of our medical supply chains!"

Silas sat at the head of the long conference table. His face was carved from cold granite once again—the legendary, unyielding expression of a man who had survived a dozen hostile takeovers. But behind his grey eyes, a cold, calculated fury was burning hot enough to melt steel.

Victor Sterling stood near the door, his tablet glowing with security logs. "Mr. Costello, we traced the leak back to Meridian Holdings associates—the same syndicate remnants we dismantled last winter. They’re trying to use regulatory pressure to force us into a settlement."

The room fell silent as everyone waited for Silas to explode, to issue a ruthless, devastating counter-strike that would crush their enemies into dust.

Instead, Silas turned his head slowly toward the far end of the table where Khloe was calmly reviewing the digital shipping manifests on her tablet.

"Khloe," Silas said, his voice cutting through the panic of the boardroom like a scalpel. "What’s our current inventory status for the northern pediatric clinics?"

Khloe looked up from her screen, completely unfazed by the media circus flashing outside the windows. "All twelve shipments are locked in transit under secure federal seal, Silas. They’ll clear customs by midnight, regardless of what the press publishes today."

She stood up, closing her tablet with a sharp, crisp snap.

"As for the leaked dossier," Khloe continued, walking slowly toward the head of the table, "it was compiled using outdated freight manifests from six months ago—before we restructured our compliance protocols under Project Horizon. Anyone with a basic understanding of our current database can see the timestamps don't match."

Silas stood up, towering over the anxious executives. A slow, razor-sharp smile broke across his face—not a smile of anger, but the absolute confidence of a man who knew his logistics inside and out.

"Arthur," Silas said, turning to the frantic PR director. "Don't issue a denial."

Arthur stopped pacing, his mouth dropping open. "What? Are you insane? If we don't deny it—"

"We don't deny it," Silas interrupted, his voice dropping into an absolute, commanding register. "We invite the entire federal oversight committee and every reporter standing outside our gates to tour our sorting facility right now. Open the doors. Let them inspect every single pallet, every customs form, and every delivery log in real-time."