With every tick of the clock, whatever remained of Henry's confidence vanished into thin air. There was too much at stake, too much to lose. He paced back and forth in his living room trying to shake his nervousness away. When that failed miserably, he contended on reviewing the speech for the tenth time that day.

He chose his usual spot on the Ottoman to go over the whole thing, practicing timing and tone in his head. One of the few things Jabin Geber had taught him was that, when it comes to speeches, people might forget what you actually told them, but will always remember how you make them feel, so always strive to make whatever feelings you need to convey come across first, content second.

Fitting, given that Henry seldom thought about what Jabin said to him, but he sure could remember how miserable he always made Henry feel.

As the clock continued its relentless march, Zizi was nowhere to be seen. A side effect of her medicine is that it made her lose track of time, and would get lost doing the most inane things possible, wasting Henry's time in the process — which, were it anyone else, would've put her straight in his shit-list.

With a deep breath to suppress his annoyance, Henry tossed the speech aside and went to look for her in the only place she could be.

When not busy sleeping, Zizi spent most of her days in the attic, modified to serve as an atelier for her to paint and draw. It was the ugliest room in the mansion — according to Henry, at least. White walls shone almost sickeningly bright on all flanks, which usually gave Henry a headache. Small shelves littered the walls, each full of paint cans, brushes, canvases of every size, knives, sponges, and other things that, for all Henry knew, didn't belong in an art studio.

Jennifer sat on a small stool by the corner browsing a teen magazine, and occasionally stealing a glance over to the middle of the room where Zizi sat in front of an easel. Her brush dipped in a small tub of ink by her side every few seconds — each stroke on the canvas matching the tune of a chipper, feel-good song coming out of a little red radio tucked away in a corner of the room, right next to Jen.

When Zizi painted, her world was that canvas. The house could've been burning down and she wouldn't even budge from her seat. Every stroke, every splotch, every line, was carefully executed with surgical precision. Her head, slightly cocked to the right, made her hair tucked into her overalls, which were a tad too big for her size.

While Henry despised the room, he loved to see Zizi paint. He loved her mouth moved to the songs without signing, how her otherwise warm eyes filled with cold determination when planning the next stroke, how her soft face twisted into a pensive scowl when deciding what part she would paint next.

For Henry, she was the real work of art in the room. Sadly, he did not have the time to admire her. Time waited for no-one, not even him.

Henry waved his hand at Jennifer, who reluctantly stood up to turn off the radio. That was the only known way to snap Zizi back to reality, as she could become quite invested in music as much as in painting. She looked disdainfully towards the radio, mad at the sudden loss of inspiration, locking eyes with Henry in the process. Her cheeks flushed a deep red when she noticed him in the room. It was a rare sight having Henry in the atelier given that he hated it there.

"Hey, hon... didn't see you there. Is it time to get going?" she asked, pulling her hair out of her overalls.

She placed her brush on a white cup on the floor, accidentally splashing some black droplets around. Not that it mattered, since the floor was already stained with the ghosts of paintings past. "Sorry. I wanted to finish this piece today, while I have some clarity."

"Don't worry. You know who much I love to see you paint."

A diminutive smile crept on her face, one of those small treasures Henry liked to keep like trophies. She made a beeline towards Henry, grabbing his hand and dragging him towards the plaster canvas she was working on.

"It was supposed to be ready by Christmas, but I haven't been feeling so clear in the noggin lately. And I wanted it to be a surprise, too, but... Merry belated Christmas, honey!" She made a grandiose gesture, with the accompanying "ta-data!" to punctuate it.

It was a rather odd painting, even for ther usual work. It was a painting of a man made entirely of ink. He was covered in a jet black jacket, the sliver of a white tie on his neck fading between the suit and the background. What was most peculiar about the painting was that, instead of a head, a tower of smoke whirled from its neck, scattering and coiling about the rest of the painting.

It all felt hazy and unfocused, yet oddly hypnotic. Behind the smoke, Henry could appreciate that there was once a very detailed skelleton in the middle of the smoke. It was almost a shame that it was obscured.

"What do you think?" said Zizi, squeezing Henry's hand.

"I think it is... a painting. What does it represent?"

Zizi released her grip on Henry's hand, putting both of her hands on her hips. "You never ask an artist what their work means. It's just it, and that's it. Get it?"

"But you just asked me what I think it means," replied Henry.

Zizi shook her head in disapproval. "I asked you what you think about it, not what you think it represents. There's a difference."

Not knowing what to say, he gave her a kiss forehead. "I think I love it. I'll have it up on the livingroom by tomorrow."

"Good answer, Henry White," she says with a toothy smile. She signaled Jennifer to help her downstairs, prodding Henry to leave with her.

By the time Henry went into his room to change, Jacob had already picked his suit for tonight. He had made a bold choice of colors: a jet black two-button suit, with a crimson shirt and a glossy black tie. Perched on his lapel was a pin of a stylized alembic beaker that served as the logo for Geber Laboratories. A faded golden chain swung from his side into his pocket with the White family heirloom attached to one of his ends: a hand-wound pocket watch, bought by his great-grandfather in China during the Boxer Rebellion. All tied together by his signature ruby ring, a gift from Zizi, who inherited it from her father, Jabin Geber.

Henry saw clothing as an extension of his power. If he wanted to appear secure and in control, his clothes must reflect that as well.

Zizi's dress was more simplistic: A slick black gown, with frills at the end. On her neck, a teardrop necklace with a blood red ruby cast in pink gold, with matching earrings. Zizi was visibly giddy at the prospect of having a night out of the house.

Because of her condition, she was a very sheltered person, only allowed to leave the mansion if necessary. It was for that reason that whenever Henry and Zizi went out together — a rare occasion, given how busy the former was all the time — he would take the scenic route to give Zizi the sights that she was so deprived of on her day-to-day.

She fiddled with the car radio as soon as she got in, setting for a slow, jazzy tune. It seemed to be the same channel Zizi was listening to in the atelier as the deep, suave voice of the DJ was a hard one to forget. Soon, the car made its way to the entrance of the Park Plaza Hotel — the battleground for tonight.

Just outside the door, a freezing Linda was greeting the incoming guests, marking something on her tablet whenever someone walked in. When she saw Henry and Zizi closing in, she shoved the tablet at one of the ushers, barking some quick instructions on what to do. She dutifully fell in line next to Henry, grabbing a small notebook from her purse.

"We have a low attendance tonight, so I gave the order to place the partition. At least it won't feel as empty as it would have otherwise. I also booked two rooms, as you requested. I already gave Mr. Prendergast his key. Here is yours: Room 918." She handed Henry the key card for the room; a cheap, plastic magnetic card, fairly scratched and somewhat sticky.

The room served two purposes: The first one was to function as a resting area in case Zizi had an episode; the second was for him to spend the night. His particular brand of business consisted of drinking like a viking to seem more down to earth to the investors, a strategy not advised if a person planned to drive in the immediate future. Just in case, shortly after leaving the car, he slipped his keys, wallet, and phone into Zizi's purse for safe-keeping. Drunk Henry was not a trustworthy person. Henry also handed over the key card to Zizi, who was already aware of the purpose of the room.

"Why, thank you, sweetie. Linda, wasn't it? Don't let this one work you to death today."

"I supposed the other arrangements were completed as well?" interrupted Henry.

"Yes, sir," replied Linda.

Again, just the way he called him "sir" sent some dangerousnshivers down his spine, which were made worse by having Zizi next to him.

Linda deftly thumbed through her notebook, looking for the booking instructions. "Here, the Gloucester conference room, last room on the right from the elevators. Conference floor. All instruments have been moved there. Everything else was cleared out to minimize sensory input."

With a curt nod, Henry dismissed her, sending her back to her post by the door.

Zizi tugged at Henry's arm with a small, joking grin. "It's a bit sad that she's so used to you treating her like crap. I told you before that you should treat your employees better." Zizi was never one to hold her tongue for long, especially when it came to Henry's attitude. "If you were my boss, I would have jumped off a bridge from all the smug comming out of your ass."

Henry let a dry chuckle seep out of his throat. "I pay her good enough to treat her like that. I'm following on your father's footsteps after all."

"Baba was kind to everyone. He even remembered everyone's birthday. You were just the exception to the rule."

"Because I stole his little treasure?" said Henry, gently poking her in the forehead, careful not to ruin her makeup.

Zizi stared straight at him with a blank expression. "It was more than one treasure, honey. But I'll take it as a compliment."

Locking arms, they entered side-by-side to the ballroom where the dinner was to be held. Dressed in pink and blue, it was a marvel to behold. The modern neon lightning blended perfectly with the older style of the room. Dinner tables littered the carpeted floor, with buzzing waiters going in-and-out of the bar with trays of drinks perilously balanced on trays. A few people by the door with elegant dresses and shining jewels approached the pair as soon as they recognized Henry. Investors soon cluttered to speak of whatever banality they thought at the moment, seizing the chance to talk to the CEO at least once before he became too busy.

Just as Linda had told him, turnout was a bit low. There were some tables in the back that were either empty or with several spots unclaimed. On one of those, the gargantuan mouth with legs that was Murray was chugging away some liquor or another. Next to him, a white-haired man, strongly built, with green eyes, was nursing an empty bottle of beer. The lapel pin of the United States Army and the buzz cut gave his identity away. He made a silent prayer for the battle he was about to face.

If negotiations were to be compared to a game of chess, the first handshake was the opening move. An overly strong handshake would make the General become defensive. A weak one would make Henry seem like a pushover. The placement, duration, movements, follow-ups: they were all an art of modern warfare, in which Henry was highly adept at. Making your opponent feel on equal ground while mounting the counterattack. He thought about how he would play this out.

He hated to refer to Jabin's wisdom on anything, but the man knew business. He could almost hear his condescending voice on his head barking instructions at him from above.

It seemed fitting that the one needed convincing was a general. It was going to be war, and it was time to make the opening salvo.

2 HOURS BEFORE THE DISASTER