Rain sprinkled the windows of Jameson Tower, a dissolving high rise that appeared to touch the sky. The faintly lit penthouse radiated extravagance and control. The room was brightened with fine craftsmanship, calfskin bound books and a see as it were a extremely rich person seem bear. Benedict Jameson, a salt-and-pepper-haired man in his forties whose deportment is as sharp as the steel and glass building he claims, sat behind his enormous coal black work area. He was immersed in a heap of private records when a thump on the entryway hindered his concentration. "Come in," he said, not bothering to see up. He thought it was one of his numerous colleagues. The entryway gradually opened to uncover a figure prowling within the shadows of the faintly lit passage. When the guest entered the room, Jameson shuddered. The figure was tall and forcing, clad in a long, dull cloak that appeared to assimilate the light around it. "Who are you?" Jameson inquired with a few instability. The intruder's lips twisted into a tricky smile, uncovering a flicker of malevolence in his eyes covered up underneath the shadowy brim of his cap. "You might say I'm an ancient colleague, Mr. Jameson." The billionaire's heart skipped a beat when he at long last recognized the voice. It was a voice he never anticipated to listen once more, a voice from his past. "Inconceivable," he mumbled beneath his breath. The interloper gradually evacuated his cap, uncovering a confront that had matured since Benedict had final seen it, but the eyes were as cold and coldblooded as ever. "Tom…Tom Reynolds," Jameson whispered in incredulity. "Great, Mr. Jameson. I'm touched simply keep in mind me," Tom said in a snide tone. It's been twenty a long time since Benedict Jameson and Tom Reynolds joined forces in a trade wander gone unpleasantly off-base. Tom fell for Jameson's heartless activities and finished up in jail as Jameson built his realm on the ruins of their shared dreams. "What are you doing here?" stammered Jameson, his fingers holding the edge of the mahogany table. He knew he ought to be stressed almost his security group, but the stun of Tom's nearness was paralyzing. Tom took a ponder step forward, his strides echoing ominously within the hush of the room. "I have come to gather a obligation, Mr. Jameson. A obligation that has been collecting intrigued for two decades." Jameson's intellect was dashing. He knew the obligation that Tom was alluding to, the ethical obligation that chewed at his soul, but he too knew that there was another obligation that stressed him distant more—the obligation of vindicate. "I do not owe you anything," Jameson dissented, in spite of the fact that his voice wavered. Tom snickered a cold, biting chuckle that chilled the room. "You will have persuaded the world that you just are a charitable very rich person, a paragon of ethicalness, but I know the truth, Benedict. I know what you did to me." As Tom talked, he created a record from interior his coat and dropped it on the table with a crash. The record contained prove of Jameson's false exercises, archivesthat might uncover his darkest privileged insights to the world. Benedict's eyes turned to the chronicle and his heart sank. He had continuously lived in fear that the past would capture up with him, and presently it had. "What do you need?" he at last conceded as a dot of sweat shaped on his temple. "I need what is legitimately mine," answered Tom. "I need you to pay for what you did to me. And I need equity." "Equity?" Jameson giggled, indeed as his mettle started to come up short. "You think the world cares what happened to a man like you?" Tom's look solidified and he inclined closer to Jameson. "I do not require the world to care, Mr. Jameson. You fair got to endure as I endure. And I will start by discharging this record to the specialists, the media and your profitable shareholders." At that minute, Jameson caught on the profundity of Tom's assurance. He had to act rapidly to ensure his kingdom, his notoriety and his future. But when he looked into Tom's eyes, he realized that he as well had to bargain with his past and there was no simple way out. The rain still beat against the windows of Jameson Tower, a appropriate foundation to the storm that had fair attacked the life of Benedict Jameson.