Chapter 8: The Obsidian Deluge

Chapter 8: The Obsidian Deluge

On stage, Marcus Sterling was incandescent. Bathed in the warm, adoring glow of the spotlights, he placed his hands on the lectern, a benevolent king addressing his loyal subjects. The applause was a physical force, a wave of validation that he drank in like the finest wine. Behind him, the three massive screens glowed with the proud, bold logo of Sterling Industries.

“Twenty-five years ago,” he began, his voice resonating with practiced gravitas, “I had a dream. A dream built on grit, determination, and an unwavering belief that anything is possible if you are strong enough to take it.”

In the cool darkness of the AV booth, Elle watched his performance, her face impassive. Her work was done. The strings had all been pulled. All that was left was to watch the puppets dance on their way to the gallows. The intoxicated technician beside her, his job reduced to a single keystroke, dutifully pressed the ‘Next Slide’ button on the laptop.

For a single, deceptive second, the screen flickered to a black-and-white photo of a younger, leaner Marcus standing before his first factory. The crowd offered a smattering of appreciative applause. Marcus beamed, ready to launch into an anecdote about his humble beginnings.

Then, the symphony began its violent crescendo.

The image of the young visionary vanished. In its place, stark and undeniable, was a scanned bank transfer. The text was brutally clear, magnified to a size that could be read from the very back of the ballroom: $15 MILLION USD. Sterling Holdings to VANTAGE GLOBAL S.A. (Cayman Islands).

A confused murmur rippled through the audience. This was not part of the hagiography. Marcus faltered, his mouth half-open. He glanced over his shoulder, a flicker of irritation on his face. “Bit of a technical glitch, folks,” he stammered, forcing a laugh. “Someone in the back is getting fired.”

The technician, panicked, hit the button again. The bank transfer was replaced by something worse. An internal email chain, its header blown up to the size of a billboard. FROM: M. Sterling. TO: C. Davies (CFO). SUBJECT: Burying Q3 Losses. The body of the email, a cold, clinical discussion on how to illegally shift liabilities to a subsidiary to defraud their shareholders, was laid bare for all five hundred guests to see.

The murmur in the ballroom died, replaced by a sudden, sharp intake of collective breath. The sound was like the air being sucked out of the room. Phones, which had been poised to record a triumphant speech, were now raised like weapons, their small red recording lights blinking in the gloom like a hundred angry eyes.

“Turn it off!” Marcus roared, his voice cracking, the microphone screeching with feedback. He abandoned the lectern, his face a mask of purple fury, and began stabbing a finger at the booth. “Turn it OFF!”

But the technician, his champagne-addled brain struggling to comprehend the disaster, only managed to hit the button again. A new slide appeared: a spreadsheet detailing backdated stock options for top executives, a clear case of securities fraud, with Marcus Sterling’s name highlighted in damning yellow at the very top.

The dam of polite society broke. A cacophony of shocked gasps, furious whispers, and the clicking of cameras filled the air. In the crowd, Elle saw Genevieve, her face alight with the ecstatic, predatory glee of a journalist who had just been handed the Pulitzer of a lifetime. Her phone was already pressed to her ear, her voice sharp and fast as she dictated the kill shot to her editor.

As the first wave of chaos crashed over the ballroom, Elle calmly turned her back on the scene. She slipped out of the AV booth, the sound of Marcus Sterling’s empire beginning to crumble fading behind her. She pulled the burner phone from her clutch. She saw the message from her plumber, still waiting: Pipes are primed. Awaiting the final turn.

Her thumb moved with surgical precision. She typed a single, two-word reply.

Turn it.

She sent the message and slipped the phone away, the vibrations of the panicked crowd seeming to travel up through the soles of her shoes. The public execution was underway. Now, for the private desecration.

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Floors above, in the hushed, climate-controlled opulence of the penthouse, the first wave of VIP guests spilled out of the private elevator. The Mayor, a state senator, and two of Marcus’s fiercest corporate rivals were among them, their conversation a low hum of feigned pleasantries and barely concealed envy.

“My God, Marcus has really outdone himself,” the senator murmured, his eyes wide as he took in the panoramic view of the glittering city below. The apartment was a temple of wealth, all chrome, glass, and stark white marble.

But their attention was inevitably drawn to the room’s grotesque centerpiece. There, on a raised dais, sat the obsidian throne. It was monstrous, a hulking block of polished blackness that seemed to absorb the light and air around it. It wasn't beautiful; it was an act of aggression, a monument to an ego so vast it required a volcano to furnish it.

“Is that…?” the Mayor began, pointing a stunned finger.

“Obsidian,” one of the rival CEOs finished, a note of grudging awe in his voice. “The sheer, bloody-minded arrogance of the man.”

As the guests drifted closer, drawn by the throne’s gravitational pull, the head of the after-party catering staff, a man on Elle’s payroll, began directing his team to serve the first flutes of crystal-clear champagne. The mood was light, the guests oblivious, standing on the precipice of a disaster they could not possibly imagine.

It started with a sound.

A low, guttural gurgle, deep from within the apartment’s walls. It was the kind of noise a dying beast might make. A few guests paused, looking around in confusion.

“Plumbing in a new building,” someone joked lamely. “Always a bit temperamental.”

The gurgle grew into a deep, percussive groan. The marble floor beneath their feet seemed to vibrate with a sickening, intestinal pressure. And then, from the base of the obsidian throne—from the custom, high-pressure pipes Marcus had been so proud of—a single, dark trickle of foul-smelling water seeped out, staining the pristine white grout.

Before anyone could properly react, before a single scream could be uttered, the trickle became a flood.

With a deep, explosive WHOOMPH, the pressure gave way. The obsidian throne, Marcus Sterling’s ultimate symbol of unyielding power, erupted. A geyser of churning, black filth shot upwards, hitting the twenty-foot ceiling and raining down in a horrific torrent. It wasn't water; it was raw, untreated sewage, a deluge of human waste and putrid sludge.

The stench hit them like a physical blow—acrid, overwhelming, and utterly vile.

The scene dissolved into pure, primal pandemonium. Screams of shock turned into shrieks of disgust. Men in thousand-dollar tuxedos and women in delicate couture gowns were instantly splattered, their finery ruined, their dignity annihilated. The senator slipped on the suddenly slick, foul floor, landing with a splash in the disgusting, spreading pool. The Mayor wretched into a potted plant. The rival CEOs, for once in their lives united in purpose, scrambled desperately for the elevator, shoving each other out of the way like animals fleeing a fire.

The luxurious penthouse, Marcus’s sacred throne room, had become a cesspool. His monument to power was now the source of a biblical plague of filth, flooding his sanctuary just as the horrified VIPs, the very people he sought to intimidate and impress, were trapped inside.

Downstairs, the digital evidence of fraud painted the screens. Upstairs, a literal river of shit drowned his legacy. Chaos, absolute and undeniable, reigned supreme.