The warm, manufactured smile Morales had worn at the federal building was entirely absent. He looked tired.

He looked like a man who had spent the weekend trying to pull a thread that refused to unravel.

He took in the sprawling, hyper-modern office, his eyes lingering on the imposing silhouette of Hayes standing like a gargoyle out on the main floor.

"Mr. Russo," Morales said, taking a seat opposite the desk without being offered one. Park stood behind him, legal pad ready. "Quite the upgrade in real estate since we last spoke."

"The company is scaling rapidly," Ryan said smoothly, leaning back in his executive chair. He steepled his fingers. "To what do I owe the pleasure, Agent Morales? Our last meeting was paused, not concluded, but I assumed you would call before dropping by."

"We prefer to see the operations firsthand," Morales said, his eyes narrowing slightly as he took in Ryan’s relaxed, unbothered posture. "It provides context."

"My accountant, Patricia, confirmed she sent over the final verifications on the consulting invoices on Friday afternoon," Ryan said. "Did they not meet your requirements?"

"The invoices checked out," Park admitted, his voice tight. "Both individuals corroborated your narrative."

"Then the source of my initial capital is verified, and the Lockridge investment covers all subsequent disbursement behavior," Ryan stated flatly. "So, why are you sitting in my office?"

Morales leaned forward, planting his elbows on his knees. He dropped the administrative facade entirely.

"A restaurant in downtown Manhattan burned to the ground on Wednesday night, Mr. Russo," Morales said, his voice dropping to a low, accusatory whisper. "A gas leak. Structural collapse. Six casualties in the basement. All of them connected to a underground Italian gang."

Ryan’s heart rate didn’t elevate by a single beat.

He looked at Morales with an expression of mild, polite confusion.

"That sounds like a tragedy for the fire department and the NYPD," Ryan said softly. "But I’m failing to see how a downtown gas leak intersects with a tax examination regarding a B2B software startup."

Morales’s jaw tightened. "We received an anonymous tip Thursday morning. The tip suggested that the sudden influx of capital in your accounts was not venture backing, but illicit funds tied to the very individuals who died in that fire."

"An anonymous tip," Ryan repeated. He let out a short, hollow laugh. "Agent Morales, I am the CEO of a tech company that just launched a highly aggressive, disruptive product in a crowded market. I have legacy competitors losing millions of dollars a day because of my software. If you are going to audit my life based on anonymous, unverified slander from my competitors, we are going to be having a very different conversation."

Ryan didn’t wait for a response. He reached out and tapped the speakerphone button on the sleek console sitting on his desk.

A sharp, dial-tone rang out, followed immediately by a crisp, female voice.

"Sterling Law. Amanda speaking."

"Amanda, it’s Ryan Russo. Is Robert available?"

"He is expecting your call, Mr. Russo. Patching you through."

A second later, a deep, resonant voice filled the office. Robert Sterling was the senior partner at the firm Diana had used to structure the investment.

He billed at two thousand dollars an hour and specialized in absolutely obliterating federal overreach.

"Ryan. What’s the situation?"

"Robert, I’m sitting in my office with Agent Morales and Agent Park of the IRS," Ryan said, keeping his eyes locked on Morales. "They have verified my consulting invoices and confirmed the Lockridge capital injection. However, they are now referencing anonymous tips regarding local organized crime to justify their ongoing presence in my building."

The silence on the speakerphone was lethal.

When Sterling spoke again, the corporate politeness was gone, replaced by the auditory equivalent of a heavy artillery strike.

"Agent Morales," Sterling said, his voice dripping with venomous authority. "My firm structured the capital injection for Rebuild Tech. We have provided you with immutable, legally binding documentation detailing every cent of Mr. Russo’s financial history. You have verified those documents. If you are operating outside the parameters of a standard Title 26 tax examination to pursue baseless, anonymous conspiracy theories regarding local arson, you are operating outside your jurisdiction."

Morales’s face flushed a dull, dark red. Park stopped writing.

"Unless you are prepared to present a federal warrant citing specific, evidence-based criminal statutes, you will conclude this examination immediately," Sterling continued ruthlessly. "If my client receives one more unannounced visit, I will file a formal complaint with the Treasury Inspector General for Tax Administration citing targeted harassment. Do you understand me, Agent?"

Morales stared at Ryan. He saw the cold, unyielding iron in the young founder’s eyes. He saw the immaculate, multi-million-dollar fortress wrapping around him.

The IRS agent had been tipped off by ghosts. He had no proof. He had no leverage. He was staring at a brick wall built of venture capital and high-priced lawyers.

"The examination is concluded, Mr. Russo," Morales said through gritted teeth.

He stood up abruptly.

"Thank you, Robert. I’ll speak with you later," Ryan said, cutting the call.

He didn’t stand to see them out. He sat back in the leather chair, folding his hands over his stomach.

"Hayes," Ryan called out, not raising his voice.

The heavy glass door opened instantly. The PMC operator stepped into the frame, his posture loose but implicitly violent.

"Escort the agents to the elevator," Ryan commanded.

Morales didn’t say another word. He turned on his heel and marched out of the office, Park trailing hurriedly behind him.

Ryan watched them go through the transparent glass. He watched Hayes shadow them all the way to the elevator bank, making sure they didn’t glance at a single monitor or speak to a single employee.

The steel doors closed. The federal threat was neutralized.

Ryan turned back to his monitor. The IRS was just a tool. The real enemy was still in the dark.

He pulled up his personal banking app. He had millions of dollars in liquid capital. It was time to stop waiting for the Syndicate to text him.

It was time to use the Warlord Protocol to buy some ghosts of his own.