In The USL…
Walter Thompson sat on a plush leather sofa, his fingers rythimically tapping the edge of the table beside him.
Across from him, a man in a tailored suit was engaged in a conversation, the occasional clink of ice against glass punctuating their words as Walter swirled a drink absentmindedly, his gaze drifting to the approachhing figure of his secretary.
The man's face was pale, his steps hesitant as he neared. Walter raised a hand, halting the ongoing discussion. His sharp eyes turned toward the secretary, his expression unreadable.
"Give me a moment," Walter said to his companion, his voice smooth yet commanding. As the man nodded and stepped back, Walter's piercing eyes locked onto the nervous figure now standing before him.
"Well?" Walter prompted, his tone calm yet laced with an unspoken edge.
The secretary swallowed hard and raised his head, his face taut with worry. "Sir, we… we've lost contact with the Rajputs."
