"Two."
The entire lobby seemed to hold its breath.
"One."
Marcus pressed the button with the finality of a judge's gavel.
Wire transfer initiated: $200,000,000.
The tablet immediately displayed a progress bar.
Processing wire transfer to JPMorgan Chase Private Banking Services.
Klene collapsed forward, his forehead nearly touching the marble floor in total defeat.
The progress bar advanced relentlessly. Ten percent. Twenty percent. Thirty percent.
Morrison's voice crackled through the phone with increasing desperation. "Marcus? Marcus? What's that notification sound? David, answer me right now."
Forty-five percent. Fifty-five percent. Sixty-five percent.
Sarah Mitchell's legs gave out beneath her. She slid down the marble wall while Jennifer caught her, both women dissolving into tears of professional devastation.
Seventy-five percent. Eighty-five percent. Ninety percent.
Emma's viewer count exploded past 150,000 people. Screenshots of the transfer progress bar were ricocheting across social-media platforms.
Ninety-five percent. Ninety-eight percent.
One hundred percent.
Wire transfer completed successfully.
The tablet displayed the transaction confirmation, including a reference ID, timestamp, transfer amount of $200 million, successful processing status, and JPMorgan Chase Private Banking as the receiving institution.
Marcus turned the tablet toward the lobby like a professor displaying the day's lesson.
Every person in the marble hall could see the confirmation.
The silence that followed was complete.
Klene remained on the floor, staring at the marble patterns as though they contained the secrets of the universe.
Morrison's voice emerged as barely more than a strangled whisper. "Did he just... two hundred million? Gone?"
"Robert," Marcus replied with the calm of a man discussing tomorrow's weather, "I have successfully transferred exactly $200 million to JPMorgan Chase. Your Manhattan flagship branch has just lost a substantial portion of the assets held by its largest private client in the most spectacularly public way imaginable."
The sound Morrison made through the phone was part anguish, part disbelief.
But Marcus was not finished.
Twenty-three minutes later, CEO Robert Morrison burst through the revolving doors like a man fleeing a burning building. His usually immaculate appearance was disheveled, tie askew, hair windblown from the rushed trip, expensive suit wrinkled from panic-induced perspiration.
His eyes immediately found the carnage.
Klene remained near the VIP counter, staring at the marble floor like a broken toy. Sarah Mitchell sat slumped against the wall, mascara streaking down her cheeks.
Jennifer Hayes clutched her phone with white knuckles, desperately updating her professional profile with the energy of someone trying to escape a sinking ship.
And in the center of it all, Marcus Washington sat calmly in a leather chair, briefcase beside him, reading emails on his phone as if waiting for a delayed flight.