Minotaur

Dario Agger stood behind the glass wall of a Roxxon crisis room while footage from a poisoned coastline played across twelve screens. Dead fish. Burning rigs. Protest lines. Satellite images of the spill spreading farther than the public report admitted. Around him, executives waited with tablets in hand, ready to offer excuses that sounded like plans.

“Don’t call it a disaster. Call it an incident with contained impact.” He adjusted his cuff and looked at the legal team. “Pay the town before they organize. Blame the contractor before reporters learn his name. And find me a local official who needs campaign money before sunrise.”